Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
He huffs a laugh, and the rich sound surrounds me like I’m being submersed in warm honey. “Why am I not surprised? I should have known you’d want something sugary.”
I tilt my chin at him, puzzled. “And how would you know something like that?”
His half-smile is a touch indulgent. “Those badges you wear on your apron,” he explains. “I particularly like the happy donut.”
I release a small laugh of my own—a shy, girlish giggle I’ve never heard issue from my own throat before.
“I didn’t realize you pay so much attention to my pins.”
His gaze is almost painfully keen again, slicing straight into me. “I want to know you.” He gestures at the glass of Champagne. “Leave that. I’ll order a daquiri for you instead.”
“That’s okay.” I say quickly. I definitely can’t afford to waste the precious bubbly. “I like Champagne.”
His expression firms to something slightly stern. “I’ll get whatever you want, Abigail.”
I meet him with my own steady stare, standing my ground. “I want the Champagne. You don’t have to order for me.”
“What if I like ordering for you?” he replies with a small smirk that makes my belly flip. “What if I want to take care of you?”
There’s a teasing edge to his questions, but his smoldering gaze is pure temptation.
I sway toward him for half a heartbeat, drawn in despite my independent sensibilities.
I find the willpower to pick up the Champagne flute and tip my glass at him in a sardonic toast. My heart is fluttering, and my fingers tingle against the cool crystal. My entire body feels alive in a way I’ve never experienced before.
“Thank you, but I can take care of myself. I’m happy with the Champagne.”
His eyes spark, and his nostrils flare slightly—like a predator that’s caught the scent of its prey. A thrill races through me; as though I’m baiting the beast, and he’s tensing in anticipation of the hunt.
The giddy high floods my veins, and my arm practically floats upward as I lift the flute with a teasing smile of my own.
“Cheers.” I clink my glass against his.
His smirk sharpens to a grin that’s almost feral, and he silently lifts his own drink. It’s not a capitulation; he’s indulging me. I’m not the only one caught up in this wild energy.
“Come on.” His big hand abruptly engulfs mine, and he tugs me away from the bar. “You’ll want to watch the sun set.”
I lift a brow at his imperious tone, but my insides are molten. I don’t mind his highhanded manner one bit, and he’s absolutely right: I would love to watch the sun set with him.
He rumbles another low chuckle. “I saw you glancing longingly at the horizon as soon as we got off the elevator. You’re very easy to read.”
A giddy laugh bubbles from my chest. His intense focus on me goes straight to my head, and I’m in awe that this gorgeous man is so fixated on me.
We come to a stop at the railing, and I rest my elbows on it. His hand touches the small of my back, his thumb barely brushing my exposed skin above the low V of my dress. A light shiver races over me, and I don’t pull away.
I crave to be close to him in a way that defies all logic. After what happened to me only a few nights ago, I shouldn’t want to be near any man.
Before memories of the horrific attack can surface and drag me out of this perfect moment, I lean into Dane and inhale his addictive scent.
“How long have you lived in Charleston?” I ask, eager to learn more about the man who’s starred in my fantasies.
“Only three months,” he replies. “I came for work after finishing my residency at Johns Hopkins.”
“You’re a doctor?” He told me his job at the market when he checked my scraped palms, but I want to know everything about him now.
“Yes.” He gives a dismissive little wave. “But that’s work. I’d much rather talk about your art.”
“Don’t you like your job?”
He shrugs. “I like being good at what I do. I like being successful and self-sufficient. The details of my profession don’t really matter. I find that Americans tend to be defined by their careers in a way I’ve never fully understood.”
“What brought you over from England? Did you want to come to America for college?”
“Yes.” He acknowledges my query, but he doesn’t allow me to change the subject. “From what I saw at the market, I noticed that your preferred style is impressionism. Did you study Art at school?”
I press my lips together for a moment, considering him. He doesn’t seem ready to talk about himself yet. I want to know more about him, but I’ll have to settle for what he’s given me in those few short statements—he’s a doctor, he studied at Johns Hopkins, and he recently moved to Charleston for work.