Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Stop.”
“Your secrets are just as important as mine,” he says, shifting his head so our eyes lock. My stomach squeezes tight. “But, it’s just not the same. Everything online about me, it’s personal. They want the skeletons in my closet.”
For the first time since I met Ben, I regret not looking into him. I know nothing about him beyond what he’s told me himself and what I’ve heard in passing around town and from Leanna.
If we weren’t currently at dinner, surrounded by people on all sides, I’d press him for more information. What skeletons could they possible uncover? But the waiter is already back with my water, and I have to lean away from Ben so I can pick up my menu and decide what I want to order.
My eyes practically bug out of my head once I get a look at the prices. There’s not a thing on the menu I could afford save for maybe a side salad. I decide to just do that and then I’ll eat something else when I get home. Whenever that may be.
The waiter comes back around the table and I listen to everyone ordering before me: grilled ribeye, chicken fricassée with creamy morel mushroom sauce, braised leg of lamb stew. My mouth is watering.
“Miss?”
I smile up at him. “Oh I’ll have a side salad with the house dressing, please.”
I pray everyone around me thinks I’m watching my weight rather than just flat-out poor, but considering I don’t have much meat on my bones to begin with…
“We’re sharing,” Ben tells the waiter. “We’ll each have a side salad, and then we’d like the ribeye”—he looks back down at me—“and did you want the red snapper or the chicken?”
For a moment, I hesitate, almost tempted to argue, but then my growling stomach wins out.
“Chicken please,” I say, smiling gently at the waiter.
Ben passes off our menus and settles right back into place with his arm thrown over the back of my chair. He doesn’t look at me as he picks up his glass of wine and takes a sip. He knows I’m watching him, though, because he tips the glass in my direction.
I hold my hand out to take it, but then suddenly, he hesitates and smiles.
“Wait…how old are you?”
His brows are furrowed. It’s like he can’t believe he doesn’t know the answer.
I steal the wine glass out of his hand. “Old enough.”
Barely.
I take a small sip, and Ben watches me with rapt attention as my lips touch the rim.
The red wine passes over my tongue, slightly bitter as I swallow.
“It’s good.”
“Keep it,” he says, eyeing the last half of the glass. “They’re bringing more. I can get another glass.”
It’s intimate, of course, to have Ben’s wine glass, to put my mouth where his was. I don’t think that fact escapes him either. I take another small sip and have to look away from him for a moment, just to catch hold of reality once again.
The chatter going on around us makes it feel like we’re alone at the crowded table. Everyone has gone back to their own conversations, forgetting about us mostly. The man to my right is having a heated discussion with his other seatmate, so I don’t worry about turning my body ever so slightly toward Ben or brushing my bare shoulder against his arm in an attempt to get closer to him, though I’d never admit that out loud.
“You’re old enough to drink,” Ben notes while he surveys me. “But something tells me you don’t drink much.”
“Wine’s not a necessity. So no, I don’t drink much.”
He responds with a soft grumble as if he’s annoyed to be reminded of the way I live, pinching pennies.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Isn’t it?”
I can hear the barely restrained emotion in his tone. I know we’ve only put a pin in our discussion from the other night, and something tells me Ben would love nothing more than to pick up right where we left off. I haven’t forgiven him, but I’m here in this glitzy dress, practically in his arms.
“Are you going to tell me about your skeletons?” I say suddenly, turning my body toward him even more, dropping my hand to the edge of his chair, right beside his thigh.
He stiffens and his eyes narrow with thought as he assesses me.
“Or will I have to read about them online like everyone else?”
He arches a brow. “You haven’t already?”
“I’m sure you won’t believe me, but no, I haven’t looked you up. I don’t get internet on my phone, and my laptop was property of Caltech so I couldn’t take it with me when I left.”
“Still…if you were curious…” he says, pressing me.
I shrug and take another small sip of wine. “Maybe I wasn’t that curious.”
He looks at me as if I just admitted I’m not that into him, like he’s never beheld a person not trying to get close to him by any means necessary.