Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“I’ll come over this weekend,” I say on a sigh. I don’t want to not talk to my dad. I love the old bugger dearly. So I’ll make peace like I always do, by not acknowledging the problem. Brushing it under the carpet and pretending I’m not deeply wounded that he doesn’t think I’m capable of running the family business with Clark. As an equal.
“Oh good,” Mum chimes, happy. “Rachel wants to finalise the seating plan, we have a final fitting for the dresses, and her best friend, Josie, wants some help with the final plans for the hen party. I’m doing picky bits and mimosas.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“How’s things at Abbie’s?”
Cramped. “I’ve only been there one night.”
“I wish you hadn’t left.”
I push my way into Pret and grab my usual salad, not acknowledging Mum’s comment. There’s nothing I can say, and telling her I don’t need my parents breathing down my neck won’t help. “I’ll call you.” I hang up, order a tea, and pay.
I’m lost in my inbox while I make my way back across the road, juggling my lunch as I push my back into the glass doors of my building. I glance up.
And freeze.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, a wave of tingles rippling through my body, making me wobble on my heels. He’s standing at the reception desk. Suited. Looking fucking glorious. “Shit.” I come over all silly and girlie, tottering toward the ladies’ restrooms, my hurried steps hampered by the tightness of my dress around my legs and the height of my heels.
Rushing in, I free my hands of my phone and lunch, dropping my bag to the floor. My cheeks are pink. Flushed. I pat at them. Why the hell did I run away? Well, totter. Wobble? This is ridiculous. Pull yourself together!
I don’t have a chance.
The door opens, and he appears, filling the doorway before checking behind him and stepping in, letting the door close. He slips his hands into his pockets. My temperature goes through the roof. Just by his presence.
“I thought I saw you running away,” he says quietly, his voice licking my skin.
Oh my God. “You’re in the ladies’,” I blurt, straightening my shoulders, blinking back how dazzling he is.
“I am?” He glances around, and the move flexes his neck, making it taut. Jesus Christ. Then his eyes drop to my salad and iced tea. “You often eat your lunch in the ladies’?”
“I . . .” I roll my eyes, exasperated by myself. “I’m washing my hands.” I flip the tap on and squirt some soap into them, massaging it to a lather. “What are you doing here?” Encountering the most delicious male specimen I’ve ever seen in my life twice in as many days cannot be pure luck.
He rests his arse back against the line of sinks and places his hands on the edge. He’s getting comfortable? My God, I could cry he’s so fucking hot. His pale-grey suit fits him disgustingly well. I look at the door.
“Nervous someone will interrupt us?”
“Interrupt us doing what, exactly?” I continue massaging soap into my hands. “Me asking you why you’re following me?”
He laughs under his breath, and the sound is like warm honey trickling over my skin. It’s an effort to conceal my hitch of breath, and judging by the amused glint in his eyes, which are on the greener side of teal today, I’ve failed spectacularly. “I’m not following you, Amelia.”
Don’t say my name, I might die of pleasure on the spot. “You often hang around ladies’ restrooms bothering women?”
“Am I bothering you?”
My hands are going to disappear in a minute. But will my brain tell me what comes after soaping? No. I ignore his question and soap some more, my eyes on my task.
“Let me help.”
“What?”
He’s suddenly behind me, his tall, lean hardness close. Hot. My eyes shoot to his in the mirror as his arms circle me and his hands rest on my forearms. I still. Breathe in. Get a potent hit of his beautiful cologne. It’s musky but fresh. A bit of oud? I don’t know, but it’s as intoxicating as the man himself.
Frozen, I watch as he slides his hands down my forearms, his fingers slipping through mine as he starts massaging the soap. My heart batters against my chest. A harsh thud smacks me between my legs, forcing me to tense my thighs. Oh . . . my . . . God. His breathing deepens. His groin pushes into my arse. His expression is serious. His lips part, his perfect white teeth bite at the edge, and I find myself mimicking his move. Jesus, he feels divine, his hands as expert as I imagined they would be.
I’m incapacitated as he dedicates time to each one of my fingers, rubbing his middle finger in between, my eyes constantly moving from his to our hands. I’m suddenly not in the ladies’, but somewhere else. Somewhere wonderful.