Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Obviously, right or wrong, I agreed.
And now I’m so scared, I think I might pass out. Though, part of that might be the python-like fit of my dress. Black velvet with a V neck, a scoop back, and a built-in corset, it’s everything I’d imagine a Mardi Gras dress should be.
But there’s a lot more to this than good formal wear, an expensive dinner, and a good time with the most attractive man I’ve ever known.
He’s my boss.
The hotel is my livelihood.
And like some kind of miracle, we’ve found an amazing rhythm that suits us. We collaborate, we compromise, and maybe most importantly, we treat one another with respect.
In fact, Trent treats the entire team that way now, and everyone is happy and healthy.
Sarah’s been able to stop taking Xanax, and George got his scoliosis diagnosis reversed.
I’m kidding, obviously, but, all in all, it’s been a month of milestones, and I’m terrified that if Trent and I take this to the next level and don’t work out, the backslide will be more than any of us can handle.
Fed up with my overanalyzing, I shut off the light to my bathroom without looking into the mirror again and head straight for my living room.
I look to the wall we share one last time, ready to get this show on the road by just meeting him at his door, when music starts to play from his apartment—for the first time ever.
I swear, even after all this time, and the acquisition of a TV, Trent Turner makes about the same noise as a church mouse.
But this…this is loud.
I walk closer, slowly, listening as the song builds and builds and then bleeds into the chorus.
“In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel.
Without thought, my feet start to move, through my living room, out the door, and over to the place where his door should be.
Only, instead, his door is open, and there, in the center of the living room, is Trent, fully dressed and pressed in his tux and finery, holding an 80s style boombox over his head and doing a very impressive John Cusack.
Oh my God.
“Say Anything is one of my favorite movies,” I whisper.
It doesn’t matter that the music is blaring; somehow, he still hears me.
“I knew it would be.”
I have to strain my voice to say something back over the music. “That’s either really sweet or really creepy.”
He lowers the boombox from above his head, turns down the volume, and smirks. “Which one are you gonna go with?”
I scan the room dramatically, bending at the waist and stooping down to look on the shelves of his furniture. When I’m done, I look him in the eye again and put my hands to my hips. “Well, I see no shrines to my womanhood, containers of teeth, bags of hair, or little glass jars filled with questionable preserves, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and say sweet.”
“I keep all of that stuff in my bedroom.”
His snark makes me laugh. It’s obviously very delicate and in no way contains a snort.
I check the time on my fancy watch—one that belonged to my mother—that I only wear on special occasions and gasp. “Oh my God, I’m sorry I’m so late. Didn’t you say the ball starts at seven thirty?”
He chuckles, puts the boombox on the kitchen island, and grabs his keys, wallet, and cell phone from the surface.
By the time he makes it to me and places one, perfectly tender kiss on my cheek, I’ve drawn my eyebrows together.
“Trent?” I ask as he spins me toward the door and puts gentle pressure on the small of my back.
We’re out in the hall, locking up behind ourselves when he finally answers. “I told you it was seven thirty, but it’s really eight thirty. We’ll be on time.”
Someone else might be offended at his assumption, but I am relieved. My voice is shrill as I congratulate him on his success. “Yes! Thank you! I’ve been telling Emory for years to con me if she wants me to be on time! Well done, you!”
His chuckle makes his smile seem especially radiant, and I get lost in it pretty damn easily.
If it weren’t for the gentle guidance he gives my body with the palm of his hand, I’d stand there and stare at him all night.
Instead of taking the stairs as usual, he leads me around the corner and pushes the call button for the elevator. My feet are thankful.
“So, is there anything I should know?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“You know, about tonight. Any particular way I should behave? Any topics I should avoid?”
“You think I invited you so you would have to pretend to be something you’re not?” He shakes his head. “Be yourself. I have faith that you’ll know what would be taking it too far and what wouldn’t be.”