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)
“No.” Her chin climbs higher. “I’ll keep this secret in exchange for another.”
A laugh bursts from me. “You just basically want me to give up more secrets?”
“It’s not that hard for you to serve them, evidently,” she counters. “I already know what you sleep in.”
I sip my wine, set it down, and meet her curious gaze. “But do you, Fable?”
“Yes, I do,” she says, digging her heels in.
“I only said no socks,” I remind her.
She taps her temple. “I put two and two together.”
I’m playing with fire. I know that. But I toss some more kindling onto the flames. “Go on. Tell me what I wear to bed.”
Like she’s the clever detective assembling clues as she paces through a well-appointed drawing room, she says, “If you don’t like having socks on in bed, it means you get hot in bed. Which means you don’t wear much. Which would usually mean boxer briefs.”
Damn. She is very, very good.
But so am I.
I don’t move a muscle. I don’t let on that she’s heading down the right path using her own smarts. I wait patiently.
“Except, you have a kid, so propriety dictates you probably don’t just wear boxer briefs,” she adds, then taps her chin. “You probably wear gym shorts to bed. And you do it every night even when Mac’s not there, since you like routine,” she says, and my lips threaten to twitch in a dead giveaway, but I tamp down the impulse. “So I say workout shorts. And when you get up—first, before anyone else in the house—you pull on a T-shirt.” Her eyebrows dance. Her irises twinkle. “Am I right or am I right?”
Try as I might to stay all business, she makes it impossible. I drop the stony face, letting a smile form. “Almost, Fable. Almost.”
She huffs, all over-the-top playful. “Fine. What did I get wrong?”
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I don’t like routine.” I take a beat, reading her body language, the way she shifts subtly closer, her head tilted, then I add, “I love it.”
Fable doesn’t have a comeback for several seconds. Then she says in a softer voice, almost a little husky, “That tracks.”
I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I’m not sure I want to know, so I leave it alone.
She sits up straighter. “My turn.”
“But that seemed like your turn,” I say.
She points at me. “You started this whole thing with asking me about food allergies. So I can either take my turn, or you can ask me, I don’t know, something about health insurance. Or my favorite columns in a spreadsheet.”
“That last one’s easy. It’s always ROI,” I toss back.
“You and your ROI.” Then she leans closer and taps the minimalist vine tattoo knuckle on my right forefinger. A current rushes through me. “That ought to be your next tattoo.”
No one, not a single soul, has ever kept me on my toes like this woman. We may have only shared monthly meetings in the past, but now I’m cursing myself for not making them biweekly. No, weekly. “Me and my ROI, or just ROI?”
“ROI, Wilder. ROI.”
“I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name.” Or touched my hand, but who’s counting?
She hums, like she’s rolling the tape, checking the files of our conversations. “I guess it is…sugar plum.” Then her brow knits, and a flash of worry crosses her eyes. “Is that okay? Calling you Wilder?”
“Yes.” I nearly add hardly anyone does and I like it when you do.
I’m grateful—mostly—when the server swings by with our entrees, setting them down, then offering pepper and grated cheese. We say yes to both and when he leaves, Fable lifts a fork, then says, “Okay, then, Wilder. It’s definitely my turn. And I am going to threaten you with a good time,” she says, then takes a bite of her zucchini noodles as the music shifts to the upbeat “Sleigh Ride.”
“Have at it,” I say, then dig in as well.
After she chews, she tips her forehead to the speaker, perched near a trellis with garlands snaking up it, curling around white icicle lights. “And this is really important for your Christmas girlfriend to know,” she says, and my skin warms hearing those words. “What is your favorite Christmas song?”
“‘Let It Snow.’”
“You just threw that down with zero hesitation,” she says.
I hold her gaze, not looking away for a few risky seconds before I say, “I know what I like.”
Her cheeks pinken, and she swallows. It’s hard to look away from her neck. Long, pale, elegant, and adorned with a simple chain and two delicate silver bells over the hollow of her throat. But perhaps I stare a little too long, giving away the corollary to my last statement.
I tear my gaze back to my meal, take another bite, at a loss for words for the first time tonight.