Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 369(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Cocktail,” he mutters. “Definitely cocktail.”
I look at him more carefully, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. I just want a damn drink. And lucky for me, The Sams are of the Mad Men era, three-martini-lunch mind-set,” he says. “They’d be more skeptical if I wasn’t drinking.”
I continue to study him. He looks mostly the same as always. Impeccably styled blond hair. Blue eyes that can go from playful to guarded in the span of a single breath. His suit’s a dark navy today, the slim silver tie keeping the look modern and sharp instead of corporate dowdy.
But there’s a restlessness about him, alongside the weariness. Even as he studies the menu, I can tell his brain’s elsewhere.
“You’re nervous,” I say quietly, so none of the neighboring tables can hear.
His eyes snap up. “What would I be nervous about?”
“You tell me.” Normally I’d call him out on his mood swings, but instinct tells me to tread carefully. “This client. He’s important?”
“Kate didn’t tell you who it is?”
I shake my head. “No. Just said that Matt’s ‘girlfriend’ was needed, that it was important.”
“It’s Jarod Lanham.”
I blink. I don’t get starstruck by name-dropping very often, but even I can appreciate the wow factor of one of the world’s most watched billionaires entering the Wall Street sphere. “Well. Crap. He’s like . . . your spirit animal.”
His smile flashes, and I’m relieved to see that it’s a real one.
“You know him?” Matt asks. “Hell, of course you do.”
“No, actually I don’t,” I admit. “He’s not in New York very often, and though we’ve gotten invited to plenty of the same events, both here and in Europe, our paths have never crossed.”
Plus, he’s never needed my services, which is how I make most of my acquaintances.
Our server comes over to ramble about today’s raw bar and take our drink order.
“A glass of the Chardonnay, please,” I say, following Matt’s lead on the boozy lunch.
“Make it a bottle,” Matt says, handing over the cocktail menu.
“You hate Chardonnay,” I say as the server moves away.
“I don’t hate it. I like vodka better, but splitting a bottle of wine’s romantic.” He looks at me in question. “Isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” I muse. “Truth be told, I spend a lot of time faking romantic evenings, not a lot of time actually enjoying them.”
Matt leans across the table toward me. “I seem to remember an evening four years ago that was romantic, and there was no faking. I don’t think.”
“That wasn’t romantic so much as . . . sexual.”
His eyes narrow slightly in challenge, and I get the sense he’s calling me a liar.
He’d be right.
That night when Matt and I first met had been romantic. And sexual. Hell, it’d been magical.
In the span of hours, he’d made me feel like no man had in my entire life. Butterflies, breathlessness, the whole bit.
And even though we’ve let the horrific aftermath of the whole thing determine our current relationship, the truth is, the good stuff is always there, lurking in my subconscious like a cherished memory, perfectly protected.
Matt sets an elbow on the table, palm out, and beckons with his fingers for me to put my hand in his.
I do. We’re playing the part of smitten, after all.
And though I know it’s pretend, my stomach tightens the second our palms touch. Even more so when he maneuvers so that my hand is cradled in his, his other hand coming up to rest fingers against the center of my palm.
The knot in my stomach tightens. Want. And a little bit of fear.
I try to hide both emotions with a coy smile. “Nice move. Setting the scene?”
In response, he drags his fingers lightly along my palm. My breath catches at the caress, but instead of looking smug, he looks intent. Thoughtful as he holds my gaze.
The server appears with the bottle of wine, but instead of releasing me, Matt continues his gentle caress, directing the server to let me be the one to do the tasting.
With my free hand, I taste the wine and declare it perfect, though truth be told, I don’t really register the flavor of the Chardonnay. I’m too aware of the man I’m sharing it with.
I clear my throat. “So what’s the plan?” I ask. “You’re going to just hold my hand until they get here?”
His gaze drops to the spot where his fingers continue their slow caress of my palm, before moving in a teasing circular motion that immediately calls to mind all the places I want his touch.
I try to jerk my hand back, but he holds it firm and looks up to study me. “You’re jumpy.”
I’m facing the front of the restaurant, and I do a quick scan to ensure Matt’s bosses haven’t come in yet. There’s no sign of them.