Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“Tiny tank top. Even smaller shorts.”
“It’s the weekend,” she snapped, braced for a fight. “Believe it or not, I don’t just prance around my apartment in a fancy dress.”
“Yeah, well, you might not like this, then,” he said, handing her the garment bag.
She took it reflexively, and he turned and went to the kitchen, setting the champagne on the counter and opening her cupboards.
She glanced at the bag, then at the man pulling two champagne flutes from her kitchen cabinet. They were the stemless kind, and cheap, but he didn’t seem to mind as he pulled the bottle of champagne out of the box.
“Kennedy.”
“Yes?”
“What the heck are you doing?”
His gaze flicked up, and he looked like a damn movie star, all thick hair, mysterious gaze, and expensive wine. His hands stilled. “Would you care for something other than Taittinger?”
“Would I care for—No, I mean, what are you doing here? At my apartment, dressed all fancy, bringing me . . .” She glanced at the dress bag. “Whatever this is.”
“Do you have alternate plans? I got a tip that your night was free.”
“What tip? Who—” She gasped. “That traitor.” Earlier in the afternoon, she’d been texting with Sabrina about the bachelorette party ideas, sarcastically mentioning that she had big evening plans of cheap white wine and browsing penises on Pinterest.
The champagne cork gave an authoritative pop, and though she wanted to berate his high-handedness, she wanted the champagne even more. To say nothing of her curiosity. Because no matter how much she might tell herself that she’d decided not to do this—that whatever happened between them on the boat had been a fluke best not repeated—she couldn’t deny that having Kennedy show up bearing gifts as though he owned the place had once been among her very top fantasies.
He walked toward her and handed her a glass.
Kate hesitated, then accepted it. “Kennedy, I mean it. Tell me what’s going on.”
He clinked his glass to hers, holding her gaze as he took a sip. “Open the bag.”
Curiosity took over, and after taking a quick sip of the champagne—then another, because, delicious—she handed the glass back to him, freeing up her hand to unzip the bag.
The zipper had made it only a few inches down when she sucked in her breath. The fabric was stunning, a color so vibrant it didn’t look real.
“It’s like a Shirley Temple,” she said as she scooped the hem of the dress out of the bag with one hand. “Not quite red, not quite pink.”
“Perfect, so I bought you grenadine,” he said drolly.
She looked over, not sure if she was more surprised he knew what gave the girlish Shirley Temple drink its color or that he’d bought her the dress. Both were completely at odds with the man she knew. Or thought she knew.
“You . . . got this for me? Why?”
“I wanted to make sure you had something to wear tonight. In case all of your other dresses were at the dry cleaner.”
“Yeah, that’s what I do,” she said. “I take my collection of three dresses, that I wear almost never, to be dry-cleaned all at the same time. Wait.” Her sarcasm scattered. “What do you mean, wear tonight?”
Kennedy handed back her champagne, then reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets, holding them up for her to see.
She read the ticket, read it again, then looked up at him in confusion. “The ballet?”
“They just opened A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” he said, putting the tickets back in his pocket. “And I made dinner reservations for after, since we won’t have enough time to eat before curtain time. Though I suppose we could snack on your weird grapes on a stick over there,” he said, nodding back toward her counter.
“Anal beads.”
Kennedy choked on his champagne. “I’m sorry?”
“For Lara’s bachelorette party. I’m doing sex-themed food. Pinterest said those are supposed to be anal beads, though whether they’re close to the real thing, I confess I couldn’t say. Do you know?”
“Jesus,” he muttered, looking like he’d wipe his brow if he had a handkerchief on hand. Which, knowing Kennedy, she was a little surprised he didn’t.
“I figure it’s the thought that counts. The real star of the show’s going to be the bananas, with strawberries as the tip, and then a little dollop of whipped cream, you know, so it looks like—”
“I get the picture,” he interrupted, sounding a little strained. He nodded at the dress. “What do you think?”
She looked down at it. “It’s really beautiful—”
“Don’t say ‘but,’” he said, taking a step closer. “Let me do this. It’s been a hell of a month for you. Let me take you to the ballet and feed you French champagne and buttery potatoes, or oysters, or whatever the hell you’re in the mood for.”
“Kennedy.” She forced herself to look at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. Or text back.”