Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Having no other choice, I put my shoe back on. There is no way in hell I’m walking on a dirty New York City street without it. More than a few strange looks are directed my way as I walk awkwardly down the sidewalk, but I try to ignore them and focus on not killing myself. As soon as I reach the office building where Impeccable Designs is located, I head through security and take the elevator up. When I make it to the forty-ninth floor, I take in the dark-gray walls hung with framed blueprints. I wobble past a small sitting area with two low leather chairs, a glass coffee table, and a black leather couch, and make my way up to the front desk, where a beautiful blonde woman is watching me with a look of concern on her pretty face.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
I carefully put all my weight on the heel that isn’t broken.
“I have a meeting with Mr. Fremont.”
She turns her head toward the computer and begins to type.
“Courtney Williams?” Her eyes come back to me, and I nod. “I’ll let him know you’re here. You can take a seat over there and wait. Do you need anything? A coffee or water?”
“Do you happen to have an extra pair of shoes?” I half joke, and she smiles sympathetically.
“I actually do.” She fishes around under her desk, pulls out a small drawstring bag, and holds it out to me. “You can have these. I have an extra pair in the drawer.”
“Are you serious?” I ask in disbelief, taking the pouch and opening it to find a pair of black, soft cotton flats with rubber soles.
“We girls gotta help each other out.” She shrugs, but I want to jump across the desk and hug her.
“Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”
“Pay it forward,” she says.
I blink at her. She looks like a model, and most of my experience with women who look like her has been that they only ever think of themselves. They just don’t do things like help another woman out when she needs a pair of shoes or tell that woman to pay it forward instead of asking for her firstborn child. Okay, I should say most of the wives of Tom’s colleagues were like that.
“Thank you.” I make a mental note to send her the biggest bouquet of flowers I can order as I take off my heels and put on the flats, then tuck my broken shoes away in my purse.
“You’re welcome.” We exchange smiles, then I lift my head when my name is rumbled through the sparse but elegantly decorated space. When my gaze locks on the owner of the voice, my whole world tips. Exquisite is the word that comes to mind as I take in Mr. Lucas Fremont. He’s wearing a black tie, stark-white dress shirt, and black slacks. His clothing fits his lean, muscular frame like a second skin. Moving my eyes to the rest of him, I can tell he’s a man who knows he looks good but doesn’t put a lot of effort into his appearance. His hair is a tad too long, dark blond with natural highlights. His skin is tan—but tanned by the sun, not a tanning bed, which seems to be popular with men nowadays. His jaw is square and not completely clean of scruff, like he might have forgotten to shave this morning. His eyes . . . his eyes are a light blue, and they seem to glow more for being framed by his dark lashes.
“Courtney.” That deep rumble of his breaks me out of my perusal, and that’s when I notice that he’s moved closer. So close that I can see his eyes are not blue like I thought. They’re more of a soft gray with a dark-blue ring around the irises.
“Uh. Yes.” I swallow, take a step toward him, and hold out my hand in his direction.
“It’s nice to meet you.” The moment his fingers wrap around mine and our eyes lock, my tipped world tumbles sideways. Blinding heat courses through my veins, and all the oxygen in the room suddenly disappears, leaving me breathless. Never in my life have I ever had this kind of reaction to a man. Never has one touch left me so completely vulnerable.
What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe I ate something I shouldn’t have. That has to be it.
“If you’ll follow me.” He lets go of my hand, and I bite my lip to keep from reaching for him again. I walk behind him down a brightly lit hall lined with framed photos of houses. When we reach his office, I walk in behind him, then stop as he shuts the door.
The click of the latch makes me jump. My eyes start to roam his body again. They catch on his tie—or, more accurately, a glittery troll sticker that’s stuck to his tie.