Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
James names a sum that makes me a little dizzy.
“Fuuuck.”
“Exactly,” he says.
“And we’d be able to work together on this?” My heart is beating harder now, an excited flutter going through me.
“Well, if you want me to.”
“Shut up. You know I would. Do you really think I don’t know it was you who put this idea in his head?”
I can almost hear him smile. “So, you’ll do it? The project starts in two weeks. They need to know as soon as possible. It should run for about a month, maybe two, depending on scheduling.”
“Where would I live?” I pace again, touching the edge of my dress then walking to the other side of the closet to brush a hand over the sleeves of Finn’s suits.
“With the money they’re paying, you could rent a place. But Michael has offered the use of his loft.”
“Michael is being generous as fuck.”
“Oh, please, Chessie. You know he’s always had a thing for you. I’m not at all surprised he asked about you.”
Halting, I stare at the wall of sneakers that is Finn’s secret pride and glory. “He’s not expecting . . . You told him about Finn, right?”
Finn. What will he say? I press a hand to my hot cheek and find my fingers cold.
“Yes, I told him,” James says, exasperated. “And don’t insult yourself. This is about your talent and people recognizing it.”
I’ve trained myself not to put too much hope into a good thing. Plans change, promises fall through the cracks. You stand on the curb enough times waiting for parents who forgot about yet another school function, and it’s inevitable.
But I don’t want to be ruled by my childhood. I let myself get excited. “I’m interested. Of course I am.”
“I’m so fucking excited,” James bursts out.
I grin wide, wanting to jump around. But then I catch sight of Finn’s shoes again.
My smile dies down. “Don’t say anything yet,” I tell James. “I have to talk . . .”
“To Finn,” James agrees, as if expecting nothing less, as if we’re already a package deal.
We are. I’m living with the man. I flex my cold fingers, shaking them to get warm.
“But I’ll let you know soon.”
Hanging up, I walk over to my dress. Happiness is a strange thing. One second, it surrounds you and you’re swimming in it, gladly willing to let it consume you. Next second, thoughts roll in and it takes effort to hold on to your happy.
Finn is my happy. But he can’t be the only source. I’ll drown that way.
Finn
Chess has cast me out of the bathroom—out of the bedroom, really. It has been declared “her domain” as she gets ready for tonight. I like that she’s claimed her space and ordered me out of it, because it means she feels at home.
Even though I’m stuck in a tux, my neck held too close by a stiff white collar, I’m happy to wait on the couch and flip through TV channels. Every so often, I hear the hum of the shower, or the high-pitched whine of her hair dryer, and part of me really wants to peek.
I won’t. Anticipation is better.
Tonight, we’re attending a gala hosted by the Whett Foundation, the charity behind our calendars. Despite the fact that a bunch of football players are attending, the invite had been clear: it is a black-tie event.
There had been much grumbling among my teammates. Personally, putting on a tux isn’t any different then donning a suit for game day, so I’m not going to complain.
Down the hall, the bedroom door opens with a definitive snick, followed by the click of high heels. I get to my feet and make my way toward Chess.
I’m quicker than she is, and we find each other at the end of the hall.
The first sight of her makes me lightheaded, the floor beneath me unsteady. “Wow,” I say with a breath. “You look . . . You’re fucking stunning, Chester.”
Her cheeks pinken, as she looks down as if inspecting herself for flaws. “I’ve never been to a black-tie gala. I hope this is all right.”
“It’s perfect.” I take a step closer, her perfume and warmth hitting my system like a drug. She staggers me. “You’re perfect.”
Her dress is floor-length with thin straps holding it up. It skims over her like milk, the fabric white and black patterned lace that, when she moves, reveals tantalizing glimpses of skin beneath.
“Please tell me you’re wearing something under that,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll be able to function if I catch a flash of nipple.”
She laughs. “It’s lined. No nipple peeks for you.”
“I’m almost sorry about that.” Reaching for her, I slip my hand around her waist, but halt when I find smooth, bare skin. “Oh, now what do we have here?”
“That would be my back,” she says with a straight face.