Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88456 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
I silently laugh at her. “I have to go and pack my bag to leave. I think I’m going to fly home before we take off on the family vacation.”
“Did you pack any slutty clothes?” Zara winks at me.
“I’m here for business. I’m not going to wear slutty clothes.” I get up, opening the door, and step into the cool living room before walking to the back where the only bathroom is. “It’s strictly professional with Nash.”
“Well, then you’re doing something wrong,” Zara declares.
“Now I have to go and get ready,” I tell her, hanging up the phone before starting the shower. I’m packed and already waiting for him in the lobby when he swings in. I grab my backpack and wheel my luggage to the door. He steps out of his car looking like he just walked off a fashion runway.
He’s wearing dark blue jeans with a white polo shirt, the tattoos on his arms on full display. If he’s wearing a suit, you can’t see them, but the minute he rolls up his sleeves, they come out. I push open the door before he has a chance to pull it open. “Hey,” he says, looking me up and down. “Didn’t I say dress casual?” he asks, and I look down at my outfit.
“This is casual,” I tell him of the light peach wraparound dress with a gray sleeveless tank top. “I’m not even wearing heels.” I point at white wedges. “Besides, this is as casual as it gets.”
“You look fantastic,” he compliments, and I tsk him. “Is that flirting?”
“Do you tell anyone else you work with that they look fantastic?” I watch him as he puts my bag in the trunk next to his.
“Technically, I don’t,” he answers, slamming the trunk, “but that’s only because no one actually looks fantastic.” I gasp at his bluntness. “So I can’t say it.”
I pull open the door, getting in and trying not to think of how much that comment means. I also try to block out how sexy he smells. “Are we flying there commercial or private?”
“Private,” he says, putting his sunglasses on. “They will have your matcha on board.”
“Good.” I pretend it matters. “Or else I wasn’t going.”
“Is that all it takes for you to stay where you are?” He looks over at me for a second with a sly smile. “I’ll learn how to make that green stuff if that’s the case.” This. Fucking. Guy. Again. I ignore the way my heart leaps to my throat and instead push forward.
“Do you even know how matcha is made?” I ask and watch his index finger tap the steering wheel when he stops at a red light.
“I know it’s green, and you add milk to it, and it tastes like shit. But for you, I’ll learn.”
“You have to sift the matcha and then you need to get a bamboo whisk.” I can’t see his eyes because they are covered with his sunglasses, but I can bet they are crystal blue and are lit up with laughter. “Which has to be soaked into hot water before you use it.”
“Then use a wire whisk.” He speaks back at me, and I shake my head.
“It has to be bamboo.” He nods and starts moving the car when the light turns green.
“Noted. Siri,” he speaks to the car, “make a note to order a bamboo whisk.”
Siri answers not too long after. “I made a note to order a bamboo whisk. Would you like to set a reminder?”
“No,” he replies. “Go on, what’s next?”
“You have to sift the matcha in one of those little sifters,” I instruct him. “That way, you don’t have any clumps.”
“Heaven forbid the matcha has clumps. It must ruin the whole taste of it.” He laughs at his own joke. “Then what, you just pour in water?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Then you have to add a bit of water and whisk it until it gets foamy.”
“So it can shake out the taste of grass?” I laugh. “Got it.”
“Then you add some milk.” I skip a couple of steps, but he’s not ever going to make me this, so it’s moot.
“I think I can do that,” he says, pulling into the parking lot I arrived at a couple of days ago. “When we come back, you can come over to the house, and we can do it together.”
“I’m off on vacation after Vegas,” I remind him, “a big family vacation.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He gets out of the car, turning one last time before he shuts the door. “Caine is going also.”
Stepping out of the car, I look over the roof at him. “And you aren’t joining us?”
“I am not,” he states, popping the trunk open, “it’s a family trip.”
“But you came that one year,” I mention to him, and I’m about to grab the luggage when he hands me his own black leather backpack.