Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I look up, and his eyes are looking down at me, and he puts his hands on my hips. If it were anyone else, I would step out of his hold. If I were smart, I would step out of his grasp, but I am not that smart. “Did you eat lunch?” he asks softly, and I just shake my head.
“I had back-to-back appointments,” I tell him and step back when I hear steps approaching.
“Oh, there you are,” Roman says, walking into the dressing room. Roman and I work side by side. He works full time and has an extensive client list. “I was wondering if you would leave without saying goodbye,” he says, coming closer. He’s six foot two and lean with a megawatt smile. He used to work at Abercrombie before starting here.
I laugh at him. “Nope still here. I had a last-minute addition.” He turns to look at Evan now.
“Oh, sorry. For some reason, I thought it was someone from your brother’s team,” he says. He isn’t a sports guy, so he has no idea what sport he plays, let alone what the team name is.
“Nope, he’s a new client,” I say, holding my hands in front of myself. “But he does play hockey. Roman, this is Evan Richards. He plays for Dallas.” Evan looks about to burst out of his suit. “Evan, this is Roman. We work together.”
Evan reaches out his hand for a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Roman,” he says, and I think I see Roman flinch before Evan finally lets go of his hand.
“I was wondering if you wanted to catch up after work?” he asks me, and I’m about to tell him no when Evan speaks.
“She’s busy,” he says with a tight voice. I look at him, and the smile on Roman’s face goes away.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea,” he says, holding up his hand. “I’ll see you next week,” he says, nodding to me and walking away.
“What in the world was that?” I ask him, pointing my finger at Roman walking away.
“That was me getting you out of a date you didn’t want to go on,” he informs me, then looks at himself in the mirror, buttoning the jacket. “I like the fit of this suit.”
“Don’t you change the subject,” I tell him. “What if I wanted to go on a date with him?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Then you should have tweeted him instead of me,” he says. “Should I try on the next one?” he says, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been on the receiving end of this. I’ve seen it with Matthew and Max and my father, but I’ve never had anyone act like that for me. “I think I’m just going to take it,” he says, ignoring the fact he just laid claim to me. “Can I have this shipped to me, or do I have to take it right now?”
“I can have it shipped to you,” I say, “but that was not okay.”
“What wasn’t okay, Zara?” he asks. He steps closer to me, and I’m suddenly at a loss for words, again.
“You coming in here and just throwing down for me,” I tell him.
“What do you feel like? Italian?” he says, walking back to the room and shrugging off his jacket. “We can have whatever you feel like.”
“I feel like kicking you right now,” I tell him, and he looks up and smirks. It just makes me want to kick him even more. I mean, kick him and then kiss it better.
“Okay, I’ll surprise you,” he says and shuts the door before I say anything.
When I walked into work this morning, I had no idea I would be walking out with Evan by my side, let alone with his hand resting firmly on my lower back while he ushers me to where his car is parked. “Do you want to go home and change?” he asks me once we get to the car. I walk to the passenger door, and I’m about to reach for the door when his hand comes out of nowhere and opens the door for me. “Whatever you want.” He stands there with the door open, and I get into the car and lean out to grab the door to close it, but he’s standing in front of it. “So what do you think?”
“Um,” I say, my brain literally on overdrive right now.
“Do you live alone?” he asks me, and I nod. “We can always pick up some food and eat it at your house.”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking that might be better than going out to a restaurant and risking someone taking a picture of us. “It might be better, so no one gets a picture.”
“I don’t care about that. I care that you were working all day, and you might be tired,” he says, turning and shutting the door. I watch him walk around the car, putting on his glasses, and it takes everything in me not to call Zoe or text her or something.