Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“What relationships?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I date women from my social circle.”
Kate’s mouth drops open. “Your social circle?”
“You know what I mean,” he says, still distracted by his phone.
“Not really,” she says.
“People . . .” He waves his hand. “People I grew up with. People I know through my parents and schooling.”
I cover my mouth with my hand to disguise my laugh at the word schooling.
“Oh, I see,” Kate says with a nod. “People you summered with.”
My laugh slips out at the same time Kennedy says, “Yes, exactly—” He breaks off and looks up at Kate, then me. “You’re mocking me.”
“A little bit, Gatsby,” I say.
He clicks off his phone and looks at me. “Why are we talking about relationships in the first place?”
“Ian’s got it bad for Lara.”
“I’m aware. What’s that have to do with dating?”
“That’s what I mean by ‘has it bad,’” Kate says smugly. “He wants to date her, not just bone her.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Bone her?”
She shrugs. “Or whatever. Insert the verb of your choice.”
I wisely keep from sharing that I have many verbs in mind when it comes to Lara, each one dirtier than the last. Instead, I say, “I don’t want to date her.” The words are automatic, but I’m not at all sure they’re true. Spending time with Lara is different from every other woman where I don’t look past the one night.
Lara McKenzie isn’t a one-night kind of woman. She’s an all-the-nights kind of woman.
Surprisingly, the thought doesn’t freak me out nearly as much as it should.
The question is—how the hell do I convince someone who doesn’t want to be seen with me at a club to give me a goddamn chance?
I’m saved from my own thoughts by the arrival of Sabrina and Matt, along with the wave of sexual tension that they always seem to ride on.
“See,” Sabrina says smugly, strutting into my office and gesturing at Kennedy, Kate, and me. “I told you they’d be in here.”
Matt rolls his eyes. “I never said I disagreed. What I said was, What the hell are you doing here?”
“And I said I was looking for Ian and Kate,” Sabrina says coolly.
I only have two guest chairs, so Kennedy stands to give his to Sabrina. “Hi, dear,” he murmurs, kissing her cheek.
She pats his jaw affectionately. “Hey, love.”
Kennedy and Sabrina have gotten along since day one. They’re not as close as Sabrina and myself—they don’t have our history. But like us, there’s an easiness to their friendship thanks to a complete lack of chemistry that allows them to interact like normal humans.
“So . . .” Sabrina crosses her legs and sets her purse on the floor. “What are we talking about? I sense interesting topics at work.”
“Ian wants to ask out the SEC,” Kate says in a loud whisper.
“Oh, now that is interesting!” Sabrina says.
My entire net worth for a pistol right now.
“Interesting or not, he can’t ask her out,” Matt says, going to the window and shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Why not?” Sabrina demands.
“He can’t ask her out yet,” Kate clarifies. “Not until the case is over.”
They’re right. Lara cares too much about her career to date the guy she’s investigating. Or sleep with him.
Ian wants to ask out the SEC . . .
Kate’s words echo in my head. She’d said it teasingly but also . . . truthfully.
I do want to ask out the SEC. I want to date Lara.
And if there’s anything I’ve learned from my time fighting out of the Philly slums, it’s how to navigate the long game—how to take small but crucial steps to get what I want.
And Lara McKenzie’s exactly what I want.
20
LARA
Week 4: Monday Night
I sip my wine and debate the delivery options on my Seamless app. “Thai or Chinese, Thai or Chinese,” I muse to no one.
Regardless of what I end up with, I have every intention of ordering the greatest items. One of the downsides of living with a model is that there’s a lot of kale and lean protein in the house. When she does agree to order takeout, it’s usually with some God-awful special direction such as, “Don’t cook in oil, please.”
What, I ask you, is the point of delicious fried rice, if not for the oil part?
Tonight, Gabs is at her on-off-whatever boyfriend’s place, so I get to order whatever the heck I want.
I take another sip of wine, then wrinkle my nose. I’m not a wine snob, but even I can tell it’s awful. It was cheap to begin with, and the fact that it’s been open for days has done nothing for it.
I reluctantly dump it down the drain. I’d really wanted an adult beverage to distract me from the fact that it’s Monday and I haven’t heard from Ian since Friday night.
I shouldn’t care. I should be relieved.