Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“And for clarification purposes, are we putting aside how bloody sexy you are?”
Let me just say that his casual question absolutely has me now feeling it.
Okay, I know I’m not unattractive to the male population in general. I’ve seen the amount of eyes on my ass and tits when I’m not in my work clothes and the less than subtle lines of drool some leak out when gawking from across the room while waiting for their date or girlfriend or wife to return to the table, but dating flop after flop after flop kind of makes a woman question the shit.
And only having two designated little black dresses – both designer names – for dates probably doesn’t help either.
Tate treats himself to a not so subtle glance down the front of my lacey dress before continuing. “I like your energy, Harper.”
The temptation to roll my eyes is stopped by the way his hold them hostage.
“I’ve always liked it. You’re bubbly and warm and just have this…thing to you that I wanna trap like lightning in a bottle.”
My bottom lip disappears behind my top teeth as I try not to outwardly swoon at the statement.
Fuck, I don’t even know what it means, but it sounds amazing.
Romantic.
Like a brand-new, exclusive chick flick starring Channing Tatum debuting on Hulu.
Ugh.
I honestly cannot remember the last time a guy said anything remotely amorous like that to me.
Daniel’s compliments during the duration of our relationship were always a lot lamer. “You’re kind” or “You’re smart” or “You’re great”, you know shit that basically sounded like a more polished version of that speech from The Help.
Smooth talking was never his strong suit.
Neither was dirty talking, which was such a fucking shame because I love it.
Perhaps an unhealthy amount, but that’s not really a “now” topic.
Not while waiting for a date and definitely not while listening to a sexy Irish accent with legs hit on me.
“However, you were a happily married woman, and I don’t invite myself into homes that didn’t open the door for me, so I settled for standing as close to lightning as I could every chance I was given.”
Wait, should I just ignore that middle section that has me very curious to focus on the fact he’s flirting, or can I ask about that first and then blush over his schoolboy crush on the older woman?
Which is all this obviously is.
“You honestly think it’s a coincidence I’m always the one serving you?”
He chose that phrasing on purpose.
I fucking know it.
And unfortunately for me my lady parts wanna feel it.
If he doesn’t hush up, I’m gonna have to order a glass of ice to nestle between my thighs to prevent giving myself third degree burns.
Tate lowers his frame a little closer cutting off my ability to breathe by both his heavenly cologne and proximity. “And do you honestly think I’d ever let another man take that pleasure from me?”
Okay, fourth degree burns.
The smirk that is rightfully earned briefly flashes itself once more prior to him straightening his posture. “You’re a brilliant woman, Harper. You know better.”
I don’t even know my own last name right now.
“So,” he smoothly segues, “who is the lucky person enjoying your company this evening?”
Uh…
Fuck.
Good goddamn question!
Michael?
Ralph?
Flula?
No.
I know it’s not that one.
That’s the name of the actor from Pitch Perfect 2.
I knew better than to let Nat pick the movie for our girl’s night yesterday. She always picks something she can sing along to. Loudly. But thankfully she has the voice of a Grammy winner rather than a dying cat. It makes her inability to resist singing along to everything almost enjoyable.
Tate’s grin suddenly grows like he has me exactly where he wants. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“What question?”
He triumphantly chortles and adjusts his tie, dragging my attention to his perfect throat.
Jimny fucking crickets, dude. How can someone’s fucking neck be perfect?!
“Your guest?” His hand motions to the empty seat. “Family? Friend?”
Unable to remember the randos exact name has me offhandedly answering, “Date.”
I expect his smile to fade not spread. “Then there’s still time.”
“For?”
“Me.”
My heart pounds harder against my ribcage, desperate to be heard, refusing to be ignored. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” his face falls a little closer to mine as he lowers his voice, “leave me your number, and it’ll be me sitting across from you at breakfast.”
“You mean dinner?”
“I don’t.”
The waggling of his eyebrows momentarily drops my jaw. Snickering at his brazenness along with his brass balls is done on a slow headshake of disbelief. “You’re way too young for me, and you know it.”
“Or maybe,” Tate counters, tone darkening, “just young enough.”
“What the hell does that even mean?!” I absentmindedly squeak.
Another laugh falls from him causing my toes to curl inside my pumps.
Oh, will someone blow the whistle already for a penalty on this play?!
No man – young or not so young – should be able to make your toes curl outside the sheets you’ve never been in together!