Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
An act. Or the truth. Why question it?
"But I'm guessing that's not your drink."
"Oh?" I ask. "Based on what?"
"Your apartment." He picks up on something. Changes tactics. "But I'd rather you tell me what you like. I love a woman who speaks her mind."
"That's a rare trait in a man."
He chuckles. "That's what my mom says too."
A sex worker who's a mama's boy. That's different. Or maybe not. Now isn't the time to get Freudian with the fella. "No. Go ahead. Guess. What’s my drink?"
"It doesn't bother you?"
"I'm curious."
I move into the kitchen.
He goes through his reasoning piece by piece. "Your place is more minimalist than maximalist. Cool tones. But it's not cold. You have blankets. And candles. They're the good kind. Wax and essential oil. Not the shit that smells like the state fair."
That makes me smile.
"You're educated. The sort of woman more likely to drink wine. I could see wine. It's elegant, like your dress. Or something else simple. A martini maybe."
He's close. I add the lime to our gin and tonics and meet him at the couch.
"Vodka soda," he guesses.
"Gin and tonic.”
He shakes his head. "Better guess. Smarter. You're witty."
Can he tell that already or does he think I’ll swoon for an empty compliment? "Witty people like gin and tonics?"
"They're British. Dry humor."
The logic tracks, but I’m not sure I believe the observations. We’ve only spoken for two minutes. He can’t know I have a dry sense of humor. "Is this your usual foreplay?" I say.
That makes him smiler wider. "No. I prefer more conventional methods. We can move to that. If you're ready." His eyes move to my chest. My stomach. The hem of my dress. "But I'm happy to talk first."
"One drink," I say. That's our agreement. One drink. Then one hour. This time. I can afford three, overall, but I’ve got to save some for later. So I have more material. He’s in charge of time. Apparently, he's flexible with first timers. "Do you usually have a drink first?"
"With some people."
"Whatever a client prefers," I say.
He takes a long sip, closes his eyes, lets out a soft sigh. "Ivy. You're using the good stuff. I had a feeling."
I want to find the false intimacy annoying, but I don’t. It’s nice to be noticed. My ex wasn’t paying any attention to me by the end. He certainly didn’t stop to appreciate the premium tonic water I bought. "If you're going to do something, do it right."
"True." His eyes go to mine. "Yes. That's the job. I'm happy either way."
"Whatever the drink?"
"Honestly?" he asks.
I nod.
"I don't like beer."
Is he saying that to win points? No. How would he know I don't like beer? That my ex drank too much beer. Well, he does know my name, and he could stalk my ex-husband's social media, but that's a lot of work, isn't it?
"It's funny. I love bitter. I love strong. I should love IPAs. But I don't."
"Why not?"
"Hops," he says. "Hate them."
I take a long sip. "But you'll drink that, if it's what a client wants?"
He raises his glass and motions to the couch shall we sit. "It hasn't come up."
No, I suppose it wouldn’t. The smell of beer isn’t exactly sexy.
I take my seat.
He sits next to me.
It's strange, to have a man in my space, a man so close. No one has been here except for Meredith and my parents.
I want him. Badly. I want to do away with his designer suit and feel his strong biceps. I want to see if he has tattoos or birthmarks or scars.
The depth of my want scares me. It's been a long time since I've felt this. Too long.
Better to ease into that.
"You're agreeable with drinks," I say. "But what if you don't find someone attractive?"
His eyes pass over me slowly. "I find you attractive."
"Would you say that, even if you didn't?"
"No. I'd say something else."
I'm not sure I believe that, but I do believe he wants me. Or maybe I just want to believe it. Why am I arguing with him anyway? I’m paying him to pretend to like me. I should let myself fall into the lie. I just… can’t.
"I have a thing for smart women," he says. "Always have."
"You're winding me up."
"No. You'd see through it," he says. "That's your job, isn't it? Sniffing out bullshit?"
That's one way to put it. "I typically say, helping people find sexual satisfaction."
"I guess we have that in common."
I guess we do. What a strange way to look at it. "Your way is probably more fun."
He lets out a low, deep laugh. It fills the space. It warms my stomach. It crinkles his eyes.
He's handsome and charming and good at his job.
And I really want to touch him. Maybe we don't need to keep talking so much. Maybe we can… get to that part.