Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
They stop talking as I approach, Chloe patting Sandra’s bare knee. I stop directly in front of them, so Sandra is forced to tilt her head back to look at me. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks and her pupils widen. Enough of this shit. I’m not misreading the situation. She wants me.
“So let’s go,” I say, eyes on hers. She nods and stands; I want to hold out my hand to help her, walk her to the car with my hand on her back, but I’m conscious of where we are, surrounded by co-workers. So I turn and walk, leaving her to trail behind me until we reach the elevators. We pass Sawyer and Everly on the way out, Everly beaming smugly while Sawyer shakes his head and mouths, No. Dick. I’m tempted to flip him off but again, mindful of my surroundings, I ignore them both and keep walking.
“I’m sorry.” This is from Sandra—the first words she’s spoken—while we’re standing outside waiting on my car.
“For?” I ask, not having any idea what she’s talking about.
“For making you leave the party early. I’m sorry. I, um, Everly…” She’s babbling now.
“It’s not a problem,” I say, adding a smile that’s known to get me whatever the fuck I want.
This girl really has no clue.
That party is the last place I wanted to be.
Five
Sandra
The valet pulls up in a sleek sedan. It’s a pearly white, spotless even in winter. I find myself wondering if Gabe gets it washed daily or if it stays this clean by magic. Gabe opens the passenger door for me and I slide inside, immediately realizing that a short skirt becomes even shorter when sitting. I tug the hem down and lock my knees together as Gabe circles the car and climbs in behind the wheel.
I think he’s looking at my bare legs. He’s silent, his head tilted in my direction. I squirm a little in the seat and rub my palms over my exposed thighs.
“Cold?” he asks.
“I’m okay,” I reply, but of course I shiver a little as I say it. I move my hands to pull my coat tighter, which leaves my legs exposed again, so I drop them to my lap and fiddle with the hem of my skirt.
“There’s a seat warmer,” he says, pushing a button with a laugh. I’m not sure if he’s laughing at my lie about not being cold or laughing at my obvious discomfort over the length of my skirt. Then he moves the car into drive and asks for my address before I can give it any more thought.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, after giving him my address. “I know it’s a little out of the way.” I live about seven miles from the hotel, not far, but not close. The area of Philadelphia I live in is more residential, less downtown high-rise. It’s not as trendy as Center City, but it included parking and made me feel safe. It was a good transition for me when I moved from Delaware two years ago, and I liked it so I renewed my lease.
“It’s not a problem,” he says, pulling the car into traffic. The car is silent, save for the click of the turn signal while we wait to make a left turn onto John F Kennedy Boulevard.
The silence is making me crazy, and I almost blurt out that he smells nice, but rein it in before I embarrass myself. “Your car smells nice,” I blurt out instead. Wow, my conversational skills are stellar. “I mean, your car is nice. What is it?” I ask in a rush.
“It’s a Tesla,” he responds, with a quick glance my way.
“Nice.”
“Thanks.”
Well, this is going well. I cross my legs out of habit and it hikes the skirt damn near to my crotch. Gabe clears his throat as I hastily uncross my legs and yank the skirt back into place, glad he can’t see my cheeks flush in the dark car. Holy shit, he must think I’m throwing myself at him. As if I would ever do that. No. If a man is interested in me, he’ll let me know.
And Gabe Laurent is never going to be interested in me, not really. Not at all, probably. He’s almost a decade older than me. He’s almost my boss—close enough, anyway. He’s gorgeous. Like, ideally gorgeous. And he just broke up with a model. I sigh. Gabe’s a stupid fantasy, nothing more.
“Everything okay?” Gabe asks, presumably responding to my sigh. “How’s your headache?”
Oh, right. My headache. Thanks, Everly. “Oh, it’s okay, thank you.” Wait, did I just admit that I don’t have a headache? “I mean, it’s still there, obviously. Headaches don’t just disappear, unless you take an aspirin. Which I did. So, you know, it’ll be gone soon.” OMG, stop talking! So I do, and the car falls into silence again.