Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 95(@200wpm)___ 76(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18990 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 95(@200wpm)___ 76(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
A fact which will no doubt disappoint my mother. She doesn’t understand how I can spend hours in my room “writing those little romance stories of yours”.
I shrug the thought away and focus on my work for the next few hours. When I’m done, I knock on Michael’s door. “I’m leaving for the night.”
He blinks up at me from behind his computer screen. He gets lost in his projects for hours, often forgetting to eat or sleep. “I’ll walk you out.”
No matter how many times I’ve told him not to worry, he still insists on seeing me safely to my car each night.
“Do you have a hot date after this?” He asks as we wait for the elevator that will take us to the parking garage.
Not unless you count a double chocolate milkshake and plotting my next story about you.
“Not really.” I pause because we don’t normally ask each other about our personal lives. “How about you?”
He snorts. “I’ll be on the paperwork for Jameson acquisition.”
When the doors open with a ding, he gestures for me to go first before following me inside. “Don’t you have a boyfriend waiting for you?”
I keep my gaze fixed on my vintage Mary Jane shoes. Something is strange tonight. Michael usually doesn’t show interest in anything that’s not directly related to the work we do. “No.”
Fortunately, the elevator opens before he can ask me more personal questions.
I gesture toward my car, the vintage Volkswagen Beetle that makes me smile every time I see it. “This is my ride.” Of course, he knows that. He’s only walked me out a million times.
He gives me a quick nod. “Be safe.”
I get into my car and watch Michael in the garage. He stands there for a long moment, waiting until my vehicle disappears from view before he goes back to his office.
On my way home, I stop at The Wicked Wench. It’s my favorite eatery here in Asheville.
Inside, the noisy restaurant, I spot Atlas. She rushes over, her blonde curls swept back into a ponytail. “You want your Friday night usual?”
I nod and wait for my order, pausing to check my phone. There are over half a dozen messages from Lacey about my latest chapters. Each one makes me giggle, especially her use of exclamation marks and dirty GIFs.
I respond to her messages then look up to see Eric coming in the door. It doesn’t seem like his kind of place but he’s always going to lunch with Michael.
He places an order for his food and retreats to a dark corner of the restaurant where he promptly buries his face in his phone.
His food comes up before mine and Atlas is the one that brings it to him. I don’t miss the flirty way she smiles at him, fluffs her hair, and keeps touching his arm.
For his part, Eric seems unaffected. He doesn’t even so much as smile at her. I’m almost convinced he doesn’t care about her until she bends over to help a crying child.
Then he totally checks out her ass. Not a quick peek either. This is a long appreciative glance that has him quickly adjusting his pants.
Busted.
For a second, I wonder if Michael knows. Then I remember the list of eligible guys that he’s putting together. He clearly doesn’t know that his daughter already has her eye on someone.
When Eric turns to leave the restaurant, I duck behind a display case filled with delicious desserts.
After another long few minutes, Atlas finally brings me my food. She gives me a flustered smile. “Thanks for waiting. I gave you the extra crispy fries you like.”
I eat my fries and shake in the car, so I don’t have to endure my mom’s arched eyebrow when she sees my unhealthy dinner choices.
If I’m lucky, she won’t even be home tonight. She’ll be at some club, dressed in the latest designer dress, and grinding it out with some guy half her age.
Unfortunately, I’m not that lucky.
My mom is home when I come in.
I brace myself for the usual onslaught. She isn’t easy to deal with on the best of days and it’s likely to be worse tonight since she’s tipsy.
I’ve just made it past the fireplace where she framed a six-foot portrait of herself on the cover of Playboy, wearing only earmuffs.
“What are you doing home so late?” She demands as if I’m a teenager that got caught sneaking in late and not a grown woman.
She’s lounging on the couch topless in just a pair of skimpy red underwear. She stares at the picture of herself, almost as if she studies it long enough she’ll be able to go back in time and recapture her youth. “Were you out being a slut with a man who took pity on you?”
Never mind that she brings home more men than a lonely cat lady brings home strays.