Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Date must not be going well if you’re thinking about numbers and clients instead . . .
It’s not a date. I’m having a drink with a friend.
Not sure what comes over me, but this conversation makes me laugh.
Is that what the kids are calling them these days? Friends? Are benefits involved?
There’s no quick reply.
There aren’t even the three dots like he’s going to.
Did I cross a line?
I’d hate if someone made assumptions about me . . . well, they do already, and I hate it. I definitely crossed a line with him.
I rush to type:
That’s none of my bus—
Are you jealous?
I read the message as soon as it pops up on the screen. Another follows:
Don’t worry. This is not that kind of friend. Not anymore.
I’m not sure if I’m more offended by the accusation of jealousy or that he had to tack on “not anymore” to the end. Ugh.
Huffing, I cross my arms over my chest, not sure why I’m bothered by either part. It’s not like I’m attracted to the man. Just because he’s hot and knows how to wear a suit doesn’t mean I want to jump on his hard body and climb him like a monkey.
Oh good lord.
Do I . . . Do I want to climb Noah Westcott like Mt. Everest and mark him as my territory?
No.
It’s not butterflies that start fluttering in my stomach. It’s a tingling I feel between my legs just thinking about him naked under me, on top of me, the way he stretched me and filled me, leaving me empty afterward that has my head spinning.
A cry from the other room breaks through the fantasy . . .
I’m hit with reality, my reality to be exact. I exhale, trying to clear my head. I need to stop this. Noah Westcott was a one-time thing. A vacation fling. A rebound at best and a memory in the least. That’s it.
I wait, listening, while my heart races through ragged breaths. No other sounds are heard. I glance at the monitor to see Maxwell sound asleep again. At least one of us can sleep.
Lying in bed, I can’t seem to stop thinking about Noah. He may be the father of my baby, but there’s absolutely no way the two of us will ever tango in the sheets again. I’m not sure why I feel . . . down . . . disheartened.
It happened once between us but didn’t work out thanks to him. So I can’t ever let that happen again. I won’t set myself up for a second round of disappointment.
I need to end this part of our relationship and focus on telling him the truth about my son. The sooner, the better so we can move on, hopefully to a peaceful co-parent situation instead. I reply:
I’ll get you the details of the expenses tomorrow by close of business. Good night.
Another message doesn’t come right away, though I feel relieved by the way it ended. But then my mind starts into overdrive . . . Did he get the text or is he too caught up in his friend to notice? He bugs me after hours, then leaves me waiting on him. Figures.
What the hell?
I hate myself for worrying about this. For thinking about him.
I’m totally failing at forgetting about him.
Let it go. You know he has.
Frustrated, I call it a day. Who cares that it’s only eight thirty-seven. I finish getting ready for bed and climb under the covers. I’d lost my sexual desires when I realized I have no one in my life to want. And since I don’t plan to date anytime soon, I don’t know why that tingling persists.
I’m left with only two things I can do:
Take matters into my own hands.
And try to forget that Noah was not only the last man to give me an orgasm but he also deftly did it four times that night.
Lying in the dark, I slip my hand under the covers, succeeding on the first and epically failing with the second.
I may be unsuccessful at forgetting about him, but the one thing I won’t fail at is protecting my heart and my son. No matter what.
9
Noah
“I need a whiteboard.”
Leanna says, “Added to the list. Where do you want it hung?”
I remove an awful piece of artwork from the wall. “This is printed, not even painted. Let’s hang the board here instead.”
Looking at the wall, she nods her approval. “I can have it in place this afternoon.”
“Thank you. In the meantime, I’m still waiting on the exact details of this account, but something is off.” I set the canvas outside my door and then close it again. “Between us, okay?”
Shoving her stylus into her bun, she says, “I’m always a vault, boss.”
“I don’t want anyone hearing a rogue theory that includes accusations toward the boss’s so-called prodigy.”