Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“Shut up,” Zoya demands when her waddle out of the restaurant has her midsection swaying like she’s in the last month of pregnancy. “I had to sneak in extra because you forgot to bring your coat to breakfast.”
We’re high-end grifters. We don’t steal buffet food by walking it out in our hands. We hide it in our clothes. I just can’t today because my sleepwear leaves little to the imagination.
I can’t even hide a banana.
Well, I could, but that could gain me even more questioning looks than I got throughout breakfast.
The flirty hostess left shortly after seating us, but the staff required to replace the supplies they began dismantling when the clock struck eleven didn’t conceal their surprise.
You’d swear they’ve never worked a minute of overtime.
I’m reminded why my maturity has dropped into an abyss the past twenty-four hours when Zoya says, “I’ve heard Greek yogurt is good for thrush, but I thought you were meant to eat it, not have it dribble down your thighs.”
She often tells me doctors mature backward since they endure twelve years of nonstop studying and exams. I’m not meant to hit the teenage rebellion I missed out on during high school for another two years.
When Zoya grimaces, I inch back and lower my eyes to the back of her coat. “Are you leaking?”
I stop checking for any slip hazards she may have left for unsuspecting hotel guests when she replies, “Not any worse than you.” She nudges her head to the cleanup crew once again dismantling the buffet. “They’re not mopping up apple juice.” Since I know her better than I know myself, I rib her with my elbow. It silences her for barely a second. “I get it. He’s hot, and his leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes only make me want to gawk at him more. But when he scowls…”—a moan vibrates her lips—“even my panties get sticky.”
I almost laugh until I remember it will encourage more nosy-Nancying. “You need to stop bringing your panties into every conversation we have.” Shockingly, my voice is professional, without the quiver of the giggles in my chest.
Zoya appears disgusted. “Why? I have a best friend for a reason.”
When we reach the elevators, the closest one is open but packed with hotel guests.
Zoya wiggles her brows when one of the male riders exits so the “heavily pregnant lady” can take his spot. “I’ll meet you up there.”
I nod, and once the elevator carting her away reaches the third floor, I push the button to call another.
It arrives in under ten seconds.
“Ladies first,” croons the unnamed man who gave up his spot for a fraudster.
I’ll give credit where credit is due. He has charm by the mile and a face that matches his gentlemanly ways. He could be quite the catch. I just don’t see his charm rubbing off on me. He seems a little too nice, and I learned fast during medical school that a saintly title rarely equates to its owner being an upstanding member of society.
After cursing my inability to let bygones be bygones, I enter the elevator first, as offered, before praising the stranger for his thoughtfulness. If I can forgive Maksim for leaving me hanging, I can forgive Dr. Schloss for not calling after a “thorough medical examination” of my vagina.
“Thank you. That is very chivalrous of you.”
Shockingly, the hairs on my arm stand to attention when he shadows me into the elevator.
I realize the error of my ways when a stern demand quickly follows the elevator car’s brief dip. “You can get the next one.”
When my eyes shoot to the unnamed man, who is still stationed outside the elevator, he tries to fire off an objection, but Maksim’s warning glare proves why the good guys need to scheme their way into a woman’s panties.
They can’t compete against men who unequivocally don’t care about the consequences of their actions.
It is how my father won over my mother.
He always said it is safer to side with a wolf than a wolf in sheep’s clothing because you know what you’re getting with a man who doesn’t hide his intentions.
I stop recalling the number of wolves in sheep’s clothing working in the medical field when Maksim says, “Your friend dropped this.”
A smile creeps onto my face when his twist exposes a banana, but since I don’t want to look more pathetic than I already do, I ask, “Are you sure it was hers? Maybe it was one of the many other patrons at the buffet with us.”
“I’m sure,” he answers, following my ruse that the buffet wasn’t solely re-opened for us. “It fell out of her coat halfway to the elevators.”
“Oh…” I snatch the banana out of his hand. “Then that would be my lunch.”
He either misses the humor in my tone or loathes budget-conscious people.
I’d say it is a bit of both.