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)
Just like I should be relieved that I didn’t see him at Wolfe today. Instead I feel a little . . . blah. Like colors are just a little less bright when he’s not around.
There’s a knock at my door, and I let out a quiet groan, because there’s a 90 percent chance that it’s Mrs. Peonta from across the street, who forgets her keys daily. We have a spare, and I wouldn’t mind the interruption if she didn’t use every encounter as a chance to tell me that in her day, women had three babies by the time they were my age.
I look through the peephole, then rear back. It’s so not Mrs. Peonta.
To make sure I’m not hallucinating, I put my face back up to the door.
Nope, still there. I’m still looking at Ian Bradley standing in my hallway, a bottle of wine under one arm, takeout bag dangling from his fingers.
I put a hand over my pounding heart. All of this, just from seeing the guy through a peephole. When did I turn into that girl?
He rolls his eyes at my delay. “Open the door, Ms. McKenzie.”
“What are you doing here?” I call through the door.
“Trying to feed you,” he says, lifting the bag. “Also, to get in your pants,” he says loudly, clearly for the benefit of my neighbors. “Maybe find out if your curtains match your—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, jerking the door open and pulling him inside. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know what I want, clever enough to know how to get it,” he says with a wink as he sets the bag and wine on my kitchen counter.
“Do you have any idea how much trouble we’d both be in if anyone knew that you were here?” I say. “The conflict of interest of us hanging out socially . . .”
I’ve been practicing this line all weekend, but I’ve forgotten the rest because Ian Bradley’s in my apartment, and for something that’s so unequivocally wrong, it feels . . .
Totally right.
Before I can register what’s happening, Ian’s opening all my kitchen drawers and rummaging around until he comes up with a corkscrew. “Wine? I know you ordered white at the restaurant, but this is a great red. Don’t make me drink alone, Lara.”
It’s my first name that does it. I’d never realized how the simple use of someone’s name can be used as foreplay, but ever since the night at the club, I’ve been thinking about the way my name rolls off Ian’s tongue. It feels like seduction at its most effective.
He lifts his eyebrows. Well?
“Okay,” I say slowly. “One glass of wine.”
“Perfect,” he says, opening the bottle.
“Ian. What are you doing here?”
He looks away, pouring us each a glass and handing me one. “We’ll get to that.” He takes a sip of the wine as he looks around, surveying my tiny apartment. “Nice.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it puts your penthouse to shame,” I say, looking at my home and seeing what he sees. Secondhand couch. TV perched on top of two wine crates Gabby nabbed from the liquor store trash. A kitchen table with an old issue of the Wall Street Journal rolled up beneath one of the legs so it doesn’t wobble.
“I don’t live in a penthouse,” Ian says matter-of-factly. “Not yet. But it’s on my forty-before-forty list.”
“Naturally. And how are your chances looking?” I ask.
He turns back to me, his smile slow and seductive as he meets my gaze. “Haven’t you heard? When I set my mind on something, I always get what I want.”
The way he looks at me makes it clear what he wants: me.
And suddenly I’m warm and a little breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with the wine.
I look away, and he lets me off the hook, giving his wineglass a quick swirl and taking a sniff in that way rich people seem to do instinctively.
“You sure you don’t want to drink that out of a sippy cup? Or wear a bib?” I ask.
He tilts his head and studies me. “I wondered if I was the only one thinking about that night at the club.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I admit. “And how it’s inappropriate for us to be spending time together in a personal capacity.”
“Agreed,” he surprises me by saying, rummaging around in the bag of takeout and coming up with a spring roll. He takes a bite and offers the other half to me. “Which is why I’m here in a professional capacity.”
I take the spring roll, telling myself it’s because I’m hungry, not because he’s the most gorgeous man alive, and if I don’t put my mouth on something, I’ll act like an idiot.
“How’d you even find my place?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
“You told me your address the other night when you got in the cab. Then I sweet-talked one of your neighbors outside, and she told me your unit. She also said to tell you your eggs are rotting.”