Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Dropping his seat tray to set his tea and paper-wrapped bagel on top, he grunts beneath his breath, a thing I also find sexy, proving I’m probably suffering from some sort of hormone malfunction. “Is that the one about selective attention?”
“Yeah. The researchers told people to watch a video of people playing in the park. One group of subjects was told to just watch the scene unfold for a few minutes. The other group was told to count the number of times two people in the upper right-hand corner of the scene passed a ball back and forth. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to any of the participants, there was a person in a gorilla suit who came creeping into the frame on the left every few seconds before creeping back out again.”
He grins around a bite of bagel. “Best job in the experiment. Being the guy in the suit.”
“Obviously,” I agree. “But the interesting thing is that only a few of the people told to watch the scene unfold noticed the gorilla and none of the subjects watching the couple play ball noticed it. Not a single one.”
“We only see what we expect to see,” he says.
“And we get major tunnel vision when we’re focused on a piece of the puzzle instead of the whole.”
“The human brain is wild,” he says. “But I’m assuming that’s not your point.”
“What if you’ve been so busy with work you’ve failed to notice that women think you’re smoking hot man meat?”
His eyes widen and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows his gulp of tea. “What brought you to this theory?”
“That college girl was flirting with you.”
“She was not,” he scoffs. “She was just batting her eyelashes in my general direction.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be dense. She was flirting. And who knows how many other women have been flirting with you throughout the years, but you haven’t noticed because you have tunnel vision on other things. You could have had gorillas throwing themselves at you this entire time. Super sexy, successful, interesting gorillas who are hot after everything you have to offer.”
He sets the cup down and shifts to face me more fully. “Your point?”
“Maybe you should consider that before we get too far down this road.”
He tips his head closer to mine. “And what road is that? The road to sleeping in the same bed one night soon?”
Tingles resurging with a vengeance, I feel my face flush as I confirm, “Yes. I don’t want to take advantage of a guy too focused on the couple tossing the ball to notice the gorillas.”
“Taking advantage of me,” he echoes, his lips curving as his hand settles on my thigh, instantly setting my panties ablaze all over again. “Is that really what you’re worried about?”
“What else would I be worried about?”
“The fact that you like my hands on you,” he murmurs so softly I can barely hear him over the rumble of the train. “Your breath comes faster every time I touch you.”
I exhale. “You don’t have to sound so proud of yourself.”
“I’m not proud of myself,” he says. “I’m hopeful. And turned on. There’s a big difference between the two.”
“Turned on?’ I echo before I can stop myself.
“Yeah. Knowing you like my touch half as much as I love touching you turns me on. And gives me hope that once I get you in my bed, you won’t want to leave.”
I swallow, struggling to come up with a breezy, smartass comment to defuse the moment, but my head is full of images of Sam with his mouth on my neck and his hand slipping down the front of my pants. The only words I can come up with are, “New subject.”
For a beat, I think he’s going to stay right where he is, so close that the smell of him—expensive cologne, honeyed-tea breath, and his addictive Sam scent—is going to make me do things I really don’t want to do. Making out with Sam may very well be in my future, but I don’t want to suck face on a train. I’m not a teenager, a drunk tourist, or an exhibitionist, thank you very much.
I like my kissing the way I like my true-crime novels—in bed, under the covers, with my nice underwear on. (If I die from fright, I want to go out wearing nice panties and my fuzzy socks.)
But after a moment, Sam leans back into his seat and crosses his long legs. “Okay. How about those Mets? Think we have a shot at a subway series this year?”
“Not a chance in hell,” I say. “The Yankees are going to destroy them. As usual.”
“It’s gross that you’re a Yankees fan. Where’s your underdog pride?”
“You’re gross. And watching the Yankees play is the one thing my father and I ever did alone, without Mom in tow,” I say. “Those memories are special to me.” I shrug, lifting my chin as I add, “And the Yankees draft hotter players. That’s just a fact, my friend, proven by science.”