Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Right,” she whispers, her eyes darting to him again. “Hope you have fun.”
“It’s not like that,” I insist since I don’t want to assume anything.
But with a wink that says you lie, Maeve whirls around, balancing a tray of sparkling champagne flutes, offering them to the crowd. I turn back to the stranger who saved the day as he turns back to me. Scruff lines his chiseled jaw, his light brown eyes twinkle with amusement, and his full lips curve into a very playful grin. He wears a silver chain that draws my attention to the fair skin of his throat, and inexplicably makes me wonder how he’d taste if I kissed him there—right there by his Adam’s apple. Does he wear cologne? Would it go to my head?
Get a grip.
He’s a stranger. I shouldn’t lust after a stranger. Instead, I brandish the napkin like it’s a prize. “I’ve got it,” I say, with more relief than I’ve ever felt.
“Now protect that, Josie,” he says.
“With my life,” I say, and I’m about to stuff it in the safest spot possible—my bra—when I remember that I’m not wearing one.
I just fold it, curling my fingers around it. He’s probably ready to take off and, I dunno, study the art here or whatever people who go to art openings do. “Thank you, Wesley,” I say since I heard Frieda the Wicked Witch use his name. “That was amazing. And I seriously appreciate it. Is there anything I can do for you?”
I genuinely want to thank him. I also maybe, possibly, don’t mind looking at him because this man is…unreal. He’s six-foot-fifty, and his shirt is hugging his pecs, and cuddling his biceps that go on for days. And his wavy, wild, dark brown hair is just a delicious mess. The kind of mess I want to drag my fingers through.
Focus, girl.
“As a matter of fact, you can help me pick art,” he says.
I was not expecting that. But it makes sense. We’re at a gallery after all.
“You want me to help you choose something?” On the one hand I’m grateful for the chance to repay the favor, but on the other hand…I gesture to my get-up. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m wearing a T-shirt and slippers. They did want to bar me from entry for all eternity.”
“And they failed. So, wanna help?”
I don’t really want to wander around a gallery half-dressed after walking a mile like this already and feeling like the biggest fool. But the man swooped in and saved the day, so I owe it to him to help, even with my free-range boobs. “I hope you’re ready for my exquisite taste,” I say.
“I’m always ready,” he says with a confidence that sends a zing down my naked chest, “for anything.”
And the zing spreads farther.
Ready for what, the too curious side of me wants to ask. But I keep that to myself. With my slippers slapping against the polished blond wood of the floor, we check out paintings hanging on stark white walls.
And wow.
I don’t want to be rude. I’m a librarian not an art historian.
But these paintings look like my nightmares. They’re all apocalyptic. Like that one of fish with wings flying over a desolate cityscape.
Wesley gestures to it. “Would this look good on my walls?” It’s asked seriously.
I study his handsome face, trying to read him as he crosses his arms and stares at the huge canvas taking up way too much space. “It depends where you live,” I say diplomatically.
“An underground bunker,” he deadpans.
I smile. “Perhaps then.”
But I don’t entirely want to insult his taste in case I’m reading him wrong, so I’m careful as we head to the next one—a black painting with a skeleton horse riding across a desert landscape toward an alien, whose face is melting off.
Wesley studies it intently, tilting his head one way, then the other. Oh god, does he really like that monstrosity?
“What do you think?” I ask enthusiastically, trying to be nice.
He hums for a beat, then leans closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine. A charge rushes through me. From his shoulder. I’ve never been a shoulder girl, but I’m reconsidering that stance tonight. Nope. I’m revising it. I’m officially a shoulder woman.
“I feel like this painting is telling me to shop at another gallery,” he whispers.
I breathe out, relieved. “Thank god you said that.”
He tilts his head. “Did you think I liked it?”
“I was hoping you didn’t,” I whisper.
“Josie.” He tsks, his clever eyes holding my gaze in a way that makes my chest flip and reminds me of item number one on my list, which makes no sense, because item number one is not my style, not at all, not one bit. “Don’t you know me better by now, sweetie?”
No, but I kind of want to—want to know him as more than just my spur-of-the-moment fake date. “You’re right. This is totally not your style, honey.”