Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
“You’re not funny.” His foul look doesn’t have the usual force behind it.
“I think I am. You do too.”
“Overconfident too.” With a chuckle, he sets his wine down without finishing it, then leans across the table toward me. “You look like you’ve had enough.” His gaze dips down toward the little plate of dessert. “Ready to go?”
“Mmm . . .”
I run my finger around the rim of my empty wineglass, pretending to consider it.
Honestly, I’m reluctant. I really am.
If this night has been one emotional gut punch after the next, it’s also been really nice. Just a little magic and intimacy that will end when he drops me off at my door with one last kiss for the woman I’m playing for the tabloids, though I’ll take it like it’s for me.
But I can’t hold on forever.
Still, I cling just a little bit longer, watching him. “Are you good to drive? We’ve polished off most of this bottle.”
“You’ve polished it off,” he points out with amusement. “I’ve been holding back, since I’m driving. A glass of water and I’ll be fine.” He arches a brow. “Will you?”
I laugh. “It’s sparkling wine! Not straight whiskey. I’m just a little fuzzy. Not drunk.”
“Good to know.” August stands then, and with a dramatic flourish that’s just playful enough to tell me he might be a tad more buzzed than he’ll admit. But then he offers me his hand and says, “Shall we?”
I don’t hesitate to slip my fingers into his.
His hand folds mine in pure heat, and he lifts me up with this effortless strength that makes my heart soar.
For an instant, it feels like he’ll swirl me into his arms to dance, my body swaying closer to his, our eyes locking. But he lets go gracefully and slips my coat off the back of my chair, holding it open for me.
When I slip my arms into it, his chest briefly presses against my back.
I go hot and tingly.
Oof.
I need a second before I can face him again.
He stays a second longer than he needs to.
Then, holding my breath, I plaster on my smile, tuck my purse under my arm, slip my hand into his arm, and let him escort me to the elevator for one last stunning glimpse of the Seattle nightscape.
I hold on to that last view.
My last bit of magic before we’re back to the mundane.
When the elevator doors open and I glance up at August, he’s watching me.
The look on his face hints that he’s as enthralled by me as I am by Seattle stretching to the horizon in a sea of lights like colored jewels.
No way.
I can’t let myself believe that.
I’m tipsy and imagining things. That conversation climbed up in my bed.
So I glance away quickly, focusing on the icy nip of night air rushing over me, clearing my head as we step outside.
He leads me to the car, helps me inside, and slips into the driver’s seat.
But when he starts the engine and pulls out into traffic, when we reach the next intersection, he doesn’t turn toward Queen Anne.
I twist to look through the back window. “Um. This is a little déjà vu, but my house is that way.”
“I know,” August says quietly behind the wheel. “I thought you’d stay at my place tonight.”
What?
I whip back to face him, every last nerve inside me seizing up in a hot flush rushing through me. I stare at him uncomprehendingly, a million things running through my head that definitely should not be.
Hot hands on my thighs, teasing them apart.
Bronzed skin against my paleness, making me feel so fragile as his fingers slide higher, higher.
His rough stubble, his mouth roaming my throat, tasting every moan that vibrates out of me as his fingers push between my legs, tease up against my—
Eleanor Jacqueline Lark, stop.
You stop that right now.
I can mentally see Gran wagging a finger at me, and she’s right.
I’m being ridiculous.
August is so calm, he couldn’t have meant—
Oh, but he glances at me, his brows knit sharply, before he jerks his gaze away with a guttural growl.
“I have a second bedroom,” he says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with any implications. I simply meant for appearances. Considering the paparazzi jackasses who’ve caught us by surprise before, we have to assume we have a very determined reporter stalking us. Someone who would notice that we sleep apart every night. We could be saving ourselves for marriage, yes. But most won’t find that plausible.”
“Oh,” I squeak. I hope to God I sound embarrassed and flustered and a little uncomfortable, and not disappointed.
Totally not.
Of course, of course it’s a practical thing from Mr. Practicality.
After a breathless moment, I groan and smack my face into my palm.
Calm down, my heart.
“For the record, we’ve got to work on your delivery,” I mutter. “And your planning! You never tell me what we’re doing until we’re in it . . .”