Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“What?”
She dashes into the bedroom, emerging seconds later with her oversize purse.
“Ta-da!” She tosses a small bag to me.
I catch it, my smile faltering when I look down at the package. Chicago-style popcorn, my weakness.
“Wow.” I hold the bag for a few seconds without opening it. “Thanks.”
“You still like it, right?” Her smile shrinks. “I was just grabbing some snacks for myself last night at the grocery store and saw the popcorn. If you don’t—”
“Still addicted,” I admit, opening the bag and eating a handful of the sweet-salty crack corn. “Thanks. This’ll hold me over till we get some lunch.”
“You already requested the Uber?”
“I’ll do it now.”
She gathers front sections of the braids and raises her arms to twist them into a top knot, leaving the rest loose down her back. The motion lifts her breasts, pressing them tight against the form-fitting dress. I grind the popcorn between my teeth. I’m being tested. Obviously. I have to pass. Failing would be disastrous and stupid. I’m not a glutton for rejection and I’m nobody’s fool. I’d have to be both to even consider giving in to this gut-punch, dick-hardening lust I’ve never been able to squash. I’m not oblivious. Pretty sure the attraction is mutual, that she still wants me, too, on some level. But she doesn’t want me for the rest of her life, and that is the promise we made to each other. The one she defaulted on. That’s not completely fair. I know what she was going through, but understanding how you got hurt never makes it hurt less.
I set the popcorn on the low table in the sitting room, then grab my phone to order the Uber, giving me something to focus on besides how good Yasmen looks in that damn dress.
Once we’re in the car, I relax some, safely seated on my side, the width of the back seat separating us. No sooner have I closed my eyes, determined to shut her out for the ten-minute ride to the restaurant, than she finds another way to torture my senses. This time with her scent.
“What is that damn smell?” I snap, turning my head to study her face.
“Oh, sorry, sir,” the Uber driver says, flicking an apologetic look to me in the rearview mirror. “I had garlic knots for lunch. You may still smell—”
“Not you,” I tell him, eyes still fixed on Yasmen. “You.”
She sniffs under her arms, frowning. “You don’t smell me.”
“It’s a good smell,” I admit. “But it’s new. Not the one you used to wear.”
“Oh.” She presses one wrist to my nose. “This?”
She has no idea how close I am to pulling her wrist to my lips and sucking the pulse throbbing there, tracing the veins with my tongue like some thirsty vampire. This is getting worse by the second.
“Yeah, that’s it.” I push her wrist away and turn my head to look out the window, not really seeing the charming neighborhood already decorated for Christmas, wreaths and lights on the street poles.
“I got it from Honey Chile. Vanilla. You like it?”
“It’s fine, yeah,” I say abruptly.
“‘It’s fine’ must be one of the best compliments anyone’s ever paid me,” she says with a dry laugh.
“Is that what you want?” I swivel my head back around to stare at her. “Compliments? You need me to tell you how good you look and smell? Mark not pumping up your ego enough?”
Why did I say that?
The smile withers on her lips and her eyes narrow. Her anger and irritation are much easier to deal with than when she’s sweet and tempting.
“I don’t need compliments from anyone,” she says, her voice knife-sharp. “Least of all from you when I know you don’t even mean them.”
I shake my head and huff out a self-mocking laugh. Don’t mean them? If only she knew.
“Look, Yas. I’m sorry.” Coward that I am, I address the apology to my window instead of to her face. She’s so damn perceptive, and I don’t need her knowing what’s really going on in my head and in my pants.
“There’s a lot happening,” I say. “But I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” she replies, the heat already draining from her voice. “Is it anything I can help with?”
“No.” Not when you’re my problem. “Thanks, though. Looks like we’re here.”
The Uber stops in front of a white Victorian house with dark red shutters. Flower boxes flank the short flight of steps leading to a dark red door. Christmas lights twinkle on the front porch and wreaths hang on the windows.
When we enter HH Eatz, Harvey stands from the bench in the waiting area to greet us.
“There they are,” he says. “Right on time. Sorry again about the rooms. My assistant was distraught about her mistake.”
“So are we,” I mutter.
“It’ll be fine,” Yas says, shooting me a pointed look. “These things happen. We’ll make the best of it, right, Si?”