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)
It’s the first time I’ve heard that name from his lips and don’t want to snap back at him. Oh God, I’m softening to him. He has always been quite charming. “Why do you call me Liv?”
“That’s how you introduced yourself.”
I grin. “I know I used that name in the Hamptons, but not many people call me that.”
“Ah.” He nods his head, looking back at the menu. “Let me guess, the honor is reserved for friends and family?”
“No. Most of them still call me Olivia.”
Antonio grabs a hunk of meat and starts slicing. “I’m telling you, man, the pastrami is the only way to go.”
“Sold,” Noah replies. “I’ll have the pastrami on—”
“Rye. Only rye, my friend.”
“Rye it is, then.” When Noah laughs, I admire how his smile is magnetic in the ease of the lines, his lips full enough to land a great kiss, and the slightest of his five o’clock shadow already appearing before one o’clock.
He nudges me. “What can I get you?”
I turn back and point at the chips. “The original kettle chips and a water, please.”
“You got it,” Antonio says, rushing to grab a bag from the clip on the rounder.
Taking the bottle of water and chips, he hands a cup to Noah and then gets busy behind the counter constructing the sandwich. I decide to sit at a table to let other customers who have walked in get closer to the counter.
With a cup full of soda, Noah sits next to me, resting his arms on the table. “Why’d you tell me to call you Liv?”
A small shrug keeps my shoulders light. It’s that or the company, and I’m willing to bet that Noah plays a big part in creating the comfort level between us that I can’t take credit for.
“Here you go, Noah,” Antonio calls him to the counter. While he holds the sandwich out to him, it gives me a moment to realize how good it feels to be with Noah.
His calm, casual tone has no expectations. It’s almost hard to look away from his naturally handsome face.
I saw how women eye him on the street and have heard a few people talk about him in ways that HR would get involved if they knew. But when I really look at him, I don’t just see a great face and incredible body. I remember how he took care of me in the Hamptons—sexually, emotionally—checking in with me and making sure that it was more than physical, that I was okay and good in all ways.
Watching him pay, I bite my lip, taking in the strength of his profile—a bump on the bridge of his nose that only adds to how attractive he is, his jaw that cuts sharp underneath, shadowing his neck under the width, and the wave in his hair that reminds me of a breeze across the water of the bay. Until he catches me staring and smiles as he slides back into the chair beside me. “What’s on your mind?”
I could be honest and talk about the tone he uses with me that eases my defenses or how his grin feels personal, like a secret that only we know. I don’t, though. My emotions have been all over the place regarding him this week. Now that Chip is back in the mix making my life hell again, is it wrong to want to enjoy the peace Noah and I share? “You asked why I told you to call me Liv. For one night, I wanted to be someone else. You gave me that chance.”
“Why’d you want to be someone else?”
“I’m not sure this story is meant to be told over pastrami.” He grins, standing and picking up his soda. “Another time?”
Telling him about a failed relationship or how atypical it was for me to rebound with a one-night stand doesn’t feel like a conversation I want to have, ever. I like who we are right now at this moment—friends—too much to ruin it. “Maybe another time.”
“I hate to cut this short, but I need to get back.”
“Me, too,” I say, standing and scooting around the table toward the door. I don’t. All I have is a bunch of numbers that don’t change the pace of my day or anyone else’s. “This demanding marketing associate insists on receiving some over-the-top detailed accounting file.”
Chuckling, he holds the door open for me. “He sounds like a nightmare.”
I laugh. “Totally, but . . .”
“But?” He stops on the sidewalk, curiosity getting the best of him. Cocking an eyebrow, he waits as if I’m about to say something monumental.
Not wanting to let him down, I reply, “Maybe I misjudged him.”
“Ah.” He sips his drink, his gaze lengthening the path back to our building. We start walking again, and he asks, “Maybe?”
“I did. Does effort to change my perception count for anything?”