Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112638 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 563(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 375(@300wpm)
“I’m not going to your apartment.” I bring the conversation back to its original topic.
“You wound me, Bumpkin.” He stands up, buttoning his blazer. “I’d never make a pass at an employee. That’s bad taste and dubious ethics.”
“Aren’t those your defining traits?” I arch an eyebrow.
To this, he full-blown laughs. “I’ll call us two separate taxis. What’s your pants size?”
“Hmm, let me see.” I twist in my seat, tugging at the size tag of my jeans. “Says here none of your business.”
Another sincere laugh escapes him. “My apologies for upsetting your southern notions. See, here in New York, women don’t let their dress size define them.”
“My size doesn’t define me. My right not to answer your personal questions does.”
“Humor me anyway, just for funsies.” His smile—when done right—can make a woman weak in the knees. Dimpled and boyish, with just the right amount of snark. Poor Grace stood no chance. I wonder if they got it on while they were under the same roof. Of course they did. Well, that’s kind of hot.
Since when do I think about things that are hot?
“Small or medium.” I purse my lips. “Now my turn to ask a question—how old are you, exactly?”
“Exactly? Thirty-five, seven months, three days, and . . .” He glances down at his watch. “Eleven hours, give or take.”
He feels much older to me, and I’m twenty-eight. Maybe because he has that larger-than-life aura.
“A taxi will arrive for you in eight minutes. But first, go change into men’s clothes,” Arsène instructs, standing up.
“What’s wrong with my current clothes?” I look down. I’m wearing a pink tank top and a pair of casual jeans from the GAP. My sandals are a hand-me-down pair from Lizzy.
“Nothing at all,” he assures me smoothly. “All the same, I do need you to look a little more masculine.”
“Masculine?”
“Yes. You need to dress as a man.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?”
He is already out the door, his back to me. “You’ll see.”
The taxi pulls out in front of a white beaux arts building. It is vast and stunning and looks ancient. What is it? A hotel? An office building? My senses kick into overdrive. I haven’t had this much adrenaline coursing through my veins since . . . since . . .
Never. No one ever pushed you that far out of your comfort zone.
“That’s you, sir,” the taxi driver announces.
Sir. After my bizarre exchange with Arsène, I went and grabbed some clothes from a pile of extras for a Victorian-era musical. I’m wearing an ivory cotton shirt, a double-breasted vest, a dinner jacket, and some slacks. My hair is stuffed inside a brown newsboy’s hat, concealed from view. I’m pretty sure I look like Oliver Twist.
I push the taxi door open and take the steps to the building two at a time. I don’t have Arsène’s number, so I have no idea if he is already inside or not. When I reach the large black door, I see a golden label on it.
THE NEW AMSTERDAM.
A GENTLEMEN’S CLUB.
MEMBERS ONLY.
I had no idea gentlemen’s clubs still existed. I raise my fist, about to knock on the door, when a voice behind me booms.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I turn around, and of course, it is Arsène, who is in the habit of materializing out of thin air like a demon, narrating my every move. Out here, in the concrete jungle of Manhattan, in broad, natural daylight, I am forced to see that he is not only a man, but a striking one at that. His thick, jet-black hair; square jaw; prominent chin; and high cheekbones give him the appeal of an old-era gentleman.
“That’s a peculiar look, Bumpkin.” His pleased voice is oddly addictive. I wonder if he’s moved on from Grace yet. If he is seeing someone else. Somehow, I think not. Arsène is the kind of man to have a very particular taste.
“You said to dress like a man.” I scowl.
“One born in this century.”
“Sorry, we ran out of hipster Brooklyn men with plaid shirts, waxed beards, and Warby Parker glasses,” I bite out.
He shoulders past me to punch in a secret code into the electric lock of the door. “You do amuse me, Winnifred. You haven’t surrendered your odd individuality in order to fit in just yet. This uninhibited, innocent vibe? It’s growing on me.”
“I’m sure there was a compliment under all that patronizing mumbo jumbo, but if it’s okay, I’d like to keep things between us professional.” I step away from him, just to prove to myself that I’m not flattered. And really, I’m not.
“Well, it’s time to put your acting skills to good use, because if they find out you’re a woman, there’s a teeny, tiny chance you’ll get arrested for trespassing.”
“Excuse me?” I thunder, finding myself yet again riled up by this impossible man. “What on earth were you—”