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)
I click on the list on my notes app since I planned it. I’m kind of the friend group social director. I start the clock.
“First one. Mirror selfie in a fancy bathroom,” I say, then swivel around, tapping my chin as I scan the surroundings, catching the facade of a sleek, modern building a few blocks away. “How about The Resort hotel? That place is five stars.”
Maeve nudges me. “Which you know since you were there.”
I smile smugly, a fond filthy memory sashaying past me of the night Wes and I spent in that hotel. The way he manhandled me in bed, giving me exactly what I’d learned that night I craved—a man to toss me around and eat me out.
“And it was quite a night,” I say with a throaty rumble. “I’ve given this hotel five out of five for…being a wingwoman.”
“My boss owns that hotel,” Fable puts in, so nonchalant as we walk through the evening crowd on Hayes Street toward The Resort.
“Ma’am, excuse me,” Maeve says, whipping her gaze to Fable. “My boss owns that? I’m gonna need details.”
“He owns it. Not me. But this shouldn’t be a surprise since I do work for”—Fable stops and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“a billionaire.”
Color me intrigued. “Tell me more about this billionaire boss. Is he hot? Ripped? Does he want to bend you over the desk?”
Fable swats my arm. “I’m dating someone. Steven, you know,” she says a little primly, mentioning the bartender she started seeing a few months ago. “So the answer is no.”
“No, your boss is not hot because you’re dating someone else?” I ask with a doubtful arch of an eyebrow. “That doesn’t add up.”
Maeve pffts. “Oh, he’s hot all right. I’ve seen pics of Wilder Blaine,” she says, mentioning Fable’s boss, who owns the city’s Renegades football team and some hotels, as well as some green energy businesses. “Pretty sure he’s San Francisco’s most eligible billionaire. And sexiest. The man is rough-around-the-edges hot in a tailored suit.”
“Well, tell me more, Maeve,” I tease.
“I’m just saying. Fable needs to open her eyes.”
As we reach the chichi hotel, Fable relents a bit with, “Yes, empirically, Wilder Blaine is good-looking, but I can’t think of him that way since he’s my boss. Also, hello! I’m seeing someone.”
“You’re not denying your boss is hot,” I add, because it’s fun to rile her up.
“Speak of the devil,” Maeve whispers out of the corner of her mouth as we walk into the lobby, its mirrored walls reflecting the opulent chandeliers above. “Her hot-ass billionaire boss is walking our way at twelve o’clock.”
As if we’ve summoned him, a tall, dark-haired man with a chiseled jaw, ink on his knuckles, and an intensity in his eyes strides across the hotel lobby. When he spots Fable, something flickers in his gaze. It’s more than recognition. It’s awareness. Interest maybe?
He stops at my redhead friend. “Evening, Fable. How’s everything? Are you staying here tonight? I can comp you a room.”
I swear he looks at her more like he wants to take her to a room than gift her one.
“We’re doing a photo scavenger hunt,” Fable says, then quickly introduces us to the man. When she’s done, he nods our way. “If you need anything, let me know.”
Then he heads off, a faint hint of expensive cologne trailing behind the mogul of a man.
“Someone has a crush on you,” Maeve mutters under her breath.
“Shut up. He does not,” Fable admonishes.
I clear my throat. “Hate to break it to you, but that man has ‘secret crush’ written all over him.”
“Does not,” she says.
I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. I will back down but I reserve the right to say I told you so someday.”
Maeve nods in solidarity. “Double I told you so.”
Fable rolls her eyes, but spins around. “Focus on the prize. We have a two-hour cake countdown.”
We get to work. Fast.
We march past the elegantly arranged bouquets of dahlias in the hallway off the lobby, their petals shimmering in the soft glow of the lighting, then head into the fancy ladies’ room. In front of the mirror, we give our best pouty faces as we snap a mirror selfie. After that, we’re onto the next stop. “Take a picture by a statue,” I read off from the notes.
Maeve screws up the corner of her lips, eyes narrowed. It doesn’t take long though. “Ooh! The giant coffee cup sculpture at Yerba Buena Gardens,” she says, then rattles off details. “It’s part of a temporary art installation. A public art initiative. Ask me how I know.” She wiggles her fingers, urging us to ask.
“How do you know?” Fable says, taking the bait.
“Because I’m obsessed with public art. I want someone to commission me to paint another giant installation. Could be coffee cup murals. Anywhere in the city,” she says wistfully. “Or anything, for that matter.” But then she seems to shake it off. “We’ll have to get there quickly though. So we can get in the cup. The cops aren’t usually there till late.”