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)
Wilder scoffs. “You don’t need to do ten million crunches.”
I flap a hand toward his obviously flat stomach. “You probably do one crunch and get instant abs. Is that your secret?”
His lips twitch in a smile. “How do you know I have abs?”
“Because the universe is unfair.” Also because your shirts fit nice and tight, and it’s unmistakable.
He rises, moving from his chair to sit next to me on the couch—closer but not too close. He draws a breath then, when I’m meeting his gaze, says, “One, you’re gorgeous as you are, and you don’t need to change a thing. And two, the universe is unfair.”
I sit up, ears pricking. He called me gorgeous. I feel like Rudolph when he learns Clarice likes him. “I am?”
I should shut up. Really, I should. But I’ve never been that good at shutting up when I’m savoring an unexpected compliment.
And that was a tasty one.
Wilder’s green irises blaze with intensity. “You are, Fable,” he says, his tone so serious, so intense that my foot would pop again if I were standing. Instead, a million hummingbirds flutter inside me. “Thank you.” I pause, wondering if I should bring up the next point. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. “Am I your My Fair Lady?”
“Fable,” he says, gentle but firm too. “Why would you say that?”
I frown, then look around his office, pointing to the window overlooking the stadium that he owns. “We don’t live in the same world. Your aunt has a stylist named Arbor who serves Veuve Clicquot. She’s sending a fancy car. And I made you a thank-you ornament from yarn,” I blurt out, and his eyes widen at the last point, but I keep going. “And I spilled Christmas glitter dicks on you, and I live in a tiny apartment and—”
I swallow the words I’m sweating. I don’t need him to know that whole encounter threw me off. But it threw me off because I don’t want us to fail. I like this ruse with him. It started as a necessity, but it’s also become fun.
Because of the kisses. Because you liked the kisses. Because you can’t stop thinking about your boss’s lips on you.
Oh my god, the voice in my head needs to shut up. I try my best to silence it as Wilder reaches for me and takes my hand, clasping it.
His touch is both reassuring and a turn-on. “You’re not My Fair Lady. You’re not a project. Bibi just likes…to do those things. To treat people to the good life, I suppose.”
“It’s not because she thinks I’m wrong for you? I mean, she was going to set you up with the executive director of the museum, not the director of team merch.”
He smiles, confident and magnetic, and doesn’t let go of my hand. “I like the team. And I like the merch.”
There’s an undercurrent to those words, but I don’t dare let myself read into it. Instead, I breathe out calmly. My pulse settles. I’m being silly. I smile apologetically and squeeze back, maybe so he won’t stop holding my hand. “Sorry. I just want to do the right thing. I don’t want to mess this up for you.”
His eyes pin me with intensity. “That would be impossible. For you to mess it up.”
I furrow my brow. “Why do you say that?”
He doesn’t answer. He tips his forehead toward my other hand. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the gift confession.” A sly smile teases his lips. “You made me an ornament?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing,” I say.
He drops my hand and raises a finger. “It’s not nothing.”
“You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“It’s from you. It’s not nothing.”
The command in his voice sends a shiver down my chest, right to my core. I raise my hand, the one that’s been clutching a tiny white paper bag with the gift inside. “Mac showed me the ornaments she made yesterday. And I wanted you to have one from me. It’s just a thank you,” I say.
His smile is no longer sly. It’s like he’s mesmerized. “You made this?” he asks, opening the bag. “For me?”
“Well, I made you the wreath for your office door too,” I say, downplaying it, but I don’t know why.
“And I love the wreath. But this is for my home,” he says as he reaches into the bag eagerly. His reaction makes my heart stutter. He pulls out a crocheted snowman with a little ribbon hanger on it. “I love it.”
“Because you like snow,” I explain, but my breath is feathery. My chest is warm.
“I was thinking of snow last night,” he says, his eyes darkening as his gaze returns to mine.
“You were?”
“Yes. You said you liked winter at the restaurant. At Dahlia’s. But do you like snow?”
My pulse spikes. He was thinking of me when he was alone at his home. “I do like it.”