Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“And is that your way of telling me you have a second career?” he asks. “That you’re an actor?”
“Yes. Clever, isn’t it? How I dropped that in?”
“Very much so. So, the bookstore thing, then?”
“I moonlight there. Bills and all,” I say, offhand. I don’t want to reveal the full extent of my acting dreams. Don’t want to let on that I spend my days auditioning for hoover adverts and bit parts on web shows and every single fringe theater production that might be right for me. That I’m chasing a wildly unlikely dream of making it big in film and on stage. He’d probably laugh. “And I’m guessing you’re a writer?”
A surprised laugh bursts from the man next to me. “It’s as obvious as me being tired?”
“Pretty obvious, TJ.” I don’t go into how I caught on. It’d be evident I’m paying too much attention to every detail of him—like how he sometimes takes his time with his words like he’s writing them out in his head first. Rather than say that, I tease, “Your whole look kind of screams writer.”
Okay, I can’t help it.
His jaw drops, and he gestures to himself. “Am I disheveled, unshowered, and dressed in sweats? No. Not to cast aspersions on other writers, mind you.”
I lean closer and whisper, “I won’t tell all the other writers in the world that you mock their wardrobes.”
“Thank you so very much. Anyway, you’re right. I am a writer—well, I’m a business reporter—and my news organization sent me here to cover the financial markets.”
“Ah, stocks, bonds, money, money, money,” I say.
“That’s the gist of my days,” TJ says, then takes a breath like he’s not quite sure if he wants to say the next thing. But then he goes for it. “I’ll be here for a year.”
I flinch in surprise. “That’s a long time.”
He laughs, but it’s defensive. “You’re rethinking that offer for tomorrow, aren’t you?”
Am I? Does the score change with him living here rather than being on holiday?
I’m not in the market for a relationship after the way my last one ended. But first dates aren’t the best time to lay down the rules of my solo road.
I keep my answer on the level—the physical level. “I’m thinking I’m still quite interested in seeing what’s underneath this writer’s garb.”
He laughs. “So, I do dress like a writer.”
“A little bit. But that isn’t stopping me from wanting to touch what’s under the Tetris T-shirt,” I say playfully, plucking at the fabric near his belly.
I’m so very tempted to check out his abs. But I don’t want to be handsy. I’ll just have to imagine what they’re like. Or maybe not, because TJ grabs my hand and places it on his stomach.
Oh, yes. They’re as firm as I imagined.
TJ gives a slight smirk. “Figured this was easier than you surreptitiously trying to check out my abs.”
“Was playing with your shirt what we’d call surreptitious?”
“Not in the motherfucking least,” he says.
This is my chance to turn the tables on him, to grab his palm, and set it on my stomach.
But he lifts his hand and takes another drink.
Maybe he wants to leave me wanting him more. And I do want TJ, even this tired version—make that dog-tired because there he goes again with another yawn.
“All right, stud. It’s well past your bedtime,” I tell him.
“It’s not even five in New York,” he protests.
“And yet, you look like you could sleep for days,” I say.
“I do like sleep, but I also like doing other things in bed,” he says, his voice husky and hopeful.
“Tomorrow, Troy Jett,” I say and ruffle his hair. I like touching him. A lot.
“Troy Jett? Please.”
“It was worth a shot.”
He arches a dubious brow. “Promise me something. Promise me you’ll never date a douche named Troy Jett.”
“That is a particularly dickish name,” I say.
He hums, tapping his chin. “Why is dick an insult?”
“That’s an excellent question, considering how much I love it,” I say, giving a little roll of the tongue with those last few words.
“That’s why it should be a compliment of the highest order,” TJ adds. “Instead of saying he’s a dick when someone is a jerk, we should save he’s a dick for a really awesome dude.”
“Like, if I met a rather handsome stud, I’d say I met a great dick today.” I take a beat to adopt a thoughtful expression. “At least, I think he’s a great dick,” I say, feigning worry. “What if he’s not?”
TJ sighs heavily. “That’d be such a shame if the guy you think is a dick turns out to be a not-dick. But I’ll let you in on a secret. I have a feeling this dude you met is definitely a dick. Like a big, huge dick. The biggest dick.”
I groan, half in the promise of pleasure, half in amusement. “But I won’t say I hope he has a big dick. Because, sure, size is nice and all. But great dicks come in all sizes. It’s not the length or the girth, but what a great dick can do with a great dick.”