Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Because I like the way his hands feel on my skin. And I like the way his groans sound in my ears.
And I even like the smell of him in my bed.
But is that really just sex?
Or is it more?
I am a woman of science. I can experiment. And most scientists, the pioneers anyway, use themselves as subjects at some point.
But what's the hypothesis?
What outcome do I really want?
To fall in love?
Or avoid it at all costs?
Maybe that's the experiment.
Maybe I can see if I'm as heartless as my ex suggested.
Chapter Seven
PATRICK
She's hilarious.
Funny and vulnerable and sexy at once.
I read the post again. I drink every drop. I'm greedy that way. Too greedy.
But, hey, isn't this why people read? They want the insight into someone else's thoughts and feelings. The only difference is Hearts and Thorns is a real person and I've spent months following her journey.
Maybe I'm a little too invested, but I see the way readers talk about books. They're just as obsessed.
I read the post again. I'm happy for her. Really.
But I'm also jealous.
It's bizarre. I've never seen her. I have no idea if she's tall or short, thin or curvy or athletic, blonde or brunette or pink-haired. There's no way for me to want her, physically.
But I do.
Even though I slept with another woman last night.
Even though I'm going to ask the other woman to sleep with me again.
A voice interrupts me. A familiar one.
Luna.
She slides into the seat across from me and picks up the plain iced coffee on the table. "I assume this is mine."
"Yeah."
"Thank you." She takes a long sip and stares at my cell, waiting for me to give in to temptation.
Or maybe that's me.
"Don't stop on my account," she says.
"It's nothing."
"Uh-huh. You forget to come back to Inked Love over nothing."
Shit. It's time for my next appointment. I'm too distracted.
"Don't worry. Your client called. She's running late. Lucky break."
"Yeah."
"You okay?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"You don't look okay," she says.
"It's…"
"You don't have to tell me. I get it. You're like Ollie."
"How am I like your boyfriend?" I ask.
"Well, you're not as handsome."
I almost laugh, but I don't. This is too weird. I can't explain it to her.
"He doesn't let on when he cares."
"I don't—"
"You're not going to convince me, so don't bother," she says.
I set my cell on the table face-down. "It's nothing."
"Your fuck buddy?"
"We're not buddies. It was one time."
"But you want to be buddies?" she asks.
"I made the offer."
"Oh. I'm sorry, Tricky. I am exaggerating about your personality. It's not totally horrible," she says.
"It was last night."
My phone buzzes on the table.
"Is that her?" she asks.
"How would I know?"
"You weren't talking to her?" she asks. "Getting a text that says 'sorry, but you didn't meet my criteria'?"
"Do women do that?"
"I've heard stories," she says.
"The six-six-six rule?" I ask.
"What?"
"Six feet, six inches, six-figure salary."
"That isn't a real thing," she says.
"My sister told me. Molly." The one who's still here, not that Luna knows the full story.
"And she knows this how?"
"A client, I guess. A writer."
"Writers do know a lot of strange things."
"Yeah." And they're smart and sexy and witty. Or maybe that's just Hearts and Thorns.
"You don't make six-figures, do you?"
"Rude," I say.
"And you're, what, five eleven? Five ten?"
"I don't think it's my height," I say.
"Only fifteen percent of men are six feet or taller," she says.
I raise a brow.
"You don't look up the percentiles you fall into?"
No. Who does? "I always forget you're a nerd."
"I'm smart, not a nerd."
"Aren't you studying chemistry?"
"With a minor is statistics," she says. "You really need data fluency these days. Everyone does."
Okay…
"I'm in the ninety-fifth percentile," she says. "Women's height."
"Congratulations," I say.
"Are you going to look?" She motions to my cell.
"In front of you?"
"Yeah, why not?" she says.
"Maybe I want some privacy."
"You really shouldn't work at Inked Love."
"Isn't this sexual harassment?" I ask.
"Probably. Do you want to report it to HR?"
"Who's HR?"
"Chase?"
"Chase is scary calm now that he's a dad."
"Yeah, he has a real daddy vibe, for sure," she says. "Kidding."
"Are you?"
She motions sorta. "Okay, I can go back to work, but you have to go back with me."
That's fair. I am late, and she is the assistant manager for the moment. "It might be SPAM."
"Just look."
I do.
And it's not SPAM or a new entry from Hearts and Thorns.
It's Imogen.
Imogen: This might be a little forward, but I would like a round two. Actually, I'd like to try to make this a regular thing. I had fun last night. I'd like to have fun all summer.
Luna squeals. "Good news?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Why do you look so glum?"
"I don't," I say.
"You don't look excited," she says.
"I am." I think. I want to see Imogen again. Badly. But there's something a little cold about the text.
She's laying down the law, yeah.
And it's a law I should like.
A beautiful woman wants sex without strings because she wants me.