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)
He’s not looking at me though. His head’s bent over a book, a few lines in his forehead creasing as he reads. I can’t quite tell what it is, but it’s a small paperback, almost like the kind of thing you’d buy at a garage sale.
It’s jarring. Maybe because I figured he’d be summoning a private jet for a quick flight to Madrid to meet a new business partner or reading some book with a ridiculous name like Pears Never Ripen when it’s really all about 101 Tips on How to Convince People to Do What You Want.
Instead, his nose is in a paperback.
I step closer and he stops, closes it, and takes his time letting a smile form. When Dahlia and I arrive, he stands.
My breath catches.
Here, in the soft light of the patio, Wilder doesn’t look like my boss. He looks like…a man on a date. He’s wearing dark slacks and a cashmere V-neck sweater with the hint of a white T-shirt under it. The cuffs are rolled up twice, revealing those corded forearms and the artwork on them.
His green eyes sparkle. He’s not wearing his big game rings.
“Here you go,” Dahlia says, but her words are faint. I can barely focus on her and she drifts out of sight, out of mind.
I swallow roughly. Try to get my bearings.
“Good to see you, Fable,” he says, then leans in, cups my arms, and almost, almost kisses my cheek. But his lips don’t quite touch me. It’s like an air kiss and it takes a surprising amount of willpower not to lean closer. When he lets go, I’m left with the scent of falling snow in a forest and a fresh new ache in my chest.
“You look lovely,” he says, like a declaration.
I open my mouth to speak, but once again, I come up empty. I’m at a loss. I feel a little wobbly. Like my breath is coming faster than I’d expected. Like my skin’s a little tingly. Like…holy shit.
I’m stupidly attracted to my boss. This is bad. This is so bad.
“Hiiiii,” I say, then gulp and then sit, patting the cushion tied to the wooden chair. “Nice…chair. It’s a nice chair. Good for sitting.”
What even are words?
“Yes, it is,” Wilder says with a hint of amusement as he takes his seat.
I glance around but can barely focus on the other diners or anything but this out-of-sync beating in my heart. “This place is…nice. For, um, eating.”
“Yes, restaurants can be good for food, I’ve heard,” he says.
Get it together, girl.
“The owner is nice. That’s nice for…”
“Owning?” he asks with a warm smile.
Oh god. I set a hand on my sternum and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know…Do you feel sorry for me?”
What the hell is it about Wilder Blaine that makes me say things I normally wouldn’t?
“No,” he says with kindness, certainty, and crystal clarity.
“I hate when people feel sorry for me,” I admit. I can’t seem to stop with him.
“Then you have nothing to worry about.” He tilts his head. “Do you feel sorry for me?”
I scoff. “God no. Why would I?”
“Exactly,” he says, cool and in control. “I could say the same about you.”
He’s quiet for a beat, while his words sink in. He doesn’t see me differently. He sees me…as an equal. We may be boss and employee, we might be a billionaire and just a woman who’s barely paying off her college loans, but here tonight, in the context of our pretend Christmas romance, we’re on even footing.
He nods to the empty wineglass on the table. “Do you want wine? Champagne? Water? A stiff drink?”
I laugh, full of relief and gratitude. Then, because we are on even footing, I find mine once again. “Are you saying you think I need one?”
“Perhaps.” He smiles, the corner of his lips lifting in an electric grin that makes my chest squeeze. With his chiseled jaw, light dusting of dark stubble, and emerald eyes, Wilder Blaine is obviously good-looking. Of course I’ve always known that. But I’ve known it in a distant way. An inaccessible way. In the way you admire the ocean, or the Golden Gate Bridge, or a photograph in an art gallery.
He’s been out of reach.
He’s not distant now. He’s the man sitting across from me on a December night as holiday lights twinkle on the heated patio. He’s the man who wants this fake romance as much as I do. Which seems wild, because this time two weeks ago I was dating someone else. Someone who turned out to be a lying, cheating jerk. Funny, how seeing someone’s true colors can help you get over them real fast.
I lift the wineglass, considering it as I meet Wilder’s gaze. “I probably could use a very stiff drink, but I’m pretty sure it’s a sin to order anything but red wine at an Italian bistro,” I say.