Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“Really?” Bibi eyes Fable like she doesn’t quite believe her, but her voice seems to say she desperately wants to.
Fable shrugs a little hopelessly. “I’ve always been a sucker for a man with abstract ink. Something that makes you think and feel. Something that’s not hitting you over the head, but instead inviting you to…wonder.”
Fuck me. She didn’t simply notice the tattoos on my forearms—not that they’re hard to miss. They’re on my knuckles too. But she has a goddamn opinion on them, and it’s an opinion that sounds like poetry. The back of my neck goes warm.
Settle down, man. She’s just playing along.
I try to cool my desire.
Time to sell this holiday romance like I’m making a pitch in a takeover bid. “You know we’ve worked closely together for a long while. Especially lately on the company’s holiday gift. And I’ve always admired…” I pause, careful not to cross any lines—or any more lines. “Her mind. Her quick thinking. Her passion for football.”
That’s all true. Her obsession with the game I love is hot. There’s not an opposing defense in the league that she hasn’t studied, a starting lineup that she doesn’t know, or a player on which she doesn’t have an opinion. Come to think of it, I’d better revise that hot to a white-hot. Then I flash a smile and go for the close. “And her dishwasher-stacking skills.”
Her hand flies to her chest. “Oh, stop. You know that’s how you won me over, sugar plum.”
“And I thought I won you over when I took you out for your favorite mint ice cream,” I say, leaning into the flirty vibe to sell this fake romance to the judge and jury.
“Wait,” Bibi says, skeptical as she raises a polished wine-red fingernail. “How long have you two been together?”
Bibi’s not an executive at my corporation for nothing. For all her talk of dreams, visions, and past lives, she’s incredibly grounded. She can spot a flaw in a nanosecond.
“It happened quickly,” I say, also quickly. “The dishwasher stacking at Thanksgiving dinner was my undoing.” My self-deprecating laugh covers any hitches in my on-the-fly fib. “You know how much I like everything neat, clean, and organized. When I found out Fable was single, I texted her the next day to ask her out for last night.”
There. I’ve established the timeframe for this fake romance. Now, I’m locking it down in my mind. It’s easy to get tangled up in your story if you don’t keep track of the details, and I won’t let that happen to us.
“It was so good,” Fable says as she jumps in for the save. “The Mint-nificent flavor at The Best Ice Cream Shop in the City is top-notch.” I’m impressed. They say the best lies have a grain of truth, and that shop does indeed have a mouthwatering mint ice cream.
“Last night?” Bibi asks. I see the cogs turning and know where she’s headed. How could I have been out if Mac was home?
“Mac was at photography class,” I explain.
“Oh.” Bibi seems a bit flummoxed. “I didn’t realize she was taking a class.”
Fable and I obviously didn’t go out, but my daughter is a gamer. She’ll roll with this plan when I tell her to go along.
It occurs to me that Mac and Fable would be a formidable team. They’re both sharp, smart, quick on their feet. I can picture them pulling off…well, anything.
“I had to seize the chance when I could,” I told Bibi. “And we were just having a secret coffee date here,” I add, gesturing to the two cups Shay brought in.
My aunt is not ready to give up her interrogation. “And you didn’t say anything in the car this morning because…?”
Bibi’s shrewd logic is making this much harder than I’d anticipated. Because it’s a good question. Why wouldn’t I have offered this dating info hours ago?
I’m scrabbling for a plausible answer when Fable smiles at me, hearts in her eyes. “Because a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” she says, sounding like she’s rushing to grab a rescue lint roller all over again.
I could kiss her for that save. Instead, I offer a smile—a romantic one. “That’s right,” I say, holding her gaze for a beat or two. Her eyes.
This whole time, Bibi’s been shifting her gaze from Fable to me and then back like a spectator at a tennis match. She narrows her eyes one more moment, then lets out a victorious, “Finally! I’ve been waiting for so long.”
Waiting? Please. More like moving chess pieces. But I give her this win. Then, she’s all business, snapping her gaze to the woman next to her. “Fable, are you good at Christmas tree decorating?”
“I know my way around a string of lights,” Fable says.
“You do like shiny things, my little elf,” I add.
“What can I say? The peacock effect is strong in me,” she tosses back.