Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Exactly.” He pauses, looks around. “But what about that one?”
I furrow my brow. He’s not gesturing to a painting. “Which one?” I ask, confused.
He lifts his finger higher, his lips tilting up, his irises gleaming with mischief. He’s pointing to the exit sign.
I grin. I can get behind that plan. “That’s a sign…to sneak out the back door,” I say in a low voice.
He glances around, looking for Frieda perhaps, then pushes open the door by the exit. “I’ll cover for you.”
Without giving it a second thought, because he’s too fun, too handsome, too helpful, I slip past him, my arm brushing against his firm chest. He’s right behind me, and we’re pushing out another door that opens into the alley while we’re laughing like we’ve made our great escape.
When I catch my breath, the thrill of our swift exit seems to vanish, and I feel empty already. Because it’s probably time to say goodbye. I have my code, and surely he’s ready to move on with his night.
With a resigned sigh, I stick out my free hand, the one that’s not holding the napkin. “Thank you again, Wesley. I seriously needed this. All of this.”
He takes my hand, shaking it. “Happy to help.”
“I should head home,” I say, tipping my forehead in the direction of Maeve’s place. “It’s a mile in slippers.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand. He’s silent, but his eyes seem to flicker with ideas. “Can I walk you?”
Briefly, I weigh the risks. He’s a stranger, but he’s a stranger who saved me. Plus, I’m walking anyway. And the streets are full of people.
“Sure,” I say. He lets go of my hand. As we leave the alley and turn onto Hayes Street, we walk a few blocks and chat about the city. But a question nags at me. “Did you really want to buy art tonight?”
“Not from there. I’d rather hang a poster from a concert I’ve gone to, or pics of my sister’s dog, or just something funny. But I kind of had to show up. My dad wanted me to check it out,” he says, but his light tone disappears, telling me he doesn’t want to talk about his father. “Do you hang fancy art like that? Or terrifying art?”
“I haven’t really done it before. I’m more of a photos girl—of the people I love,” I reply, ignoring the slight pang in my chest when I think of one person I love who was taken from my life too soon.
We pass an ice cream shop and he glances at the window—a little longingly—before turning his gaze back to me. I file that information away in my mind under Things Extremely Built Men Want But Can’t Have. I shift gears. “And do you usually save women trying to infiltrate art events?”
“That was definitely a first. Do you usually infiltrate art events in your…” He lifts a curious brow, checking out my absurd clothes.
“My getting ready outfit?”
“Yes, that.”
I pluck at the oversized shirt, then wince. “No. It’s sort of fitting, the art was nightmarish. Walking around half-naked is kind of a nightmare.”
Instantly, his mirth vanishes. His brown eyes are serious as he scans the block with assessing eyes. “There’s a shop a couple blocks away. I saw it when I was driving. Let me get you something to wear.”
My lips part. My brain stutters. Is he for real? Who is this generous? “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
It’s said like the simplest answer ever. And it’s no longer just a fleeting thought. This sexy stranger is definitely making me rethink item number one on my list.
4
VERY SINGLE
Wesley
“I’ll pay you back,” she says, as I hold open the door to Better With Pockets.
Hell no. I shake my head vehemently. “Nope.”
“Seriously. You don’t have to buy clothes for me,” she says as she walks past me into the boutique.
“I know. But I want to,” I say firmly, letting the door fall closed.
“You really want to shop for me?” The question resonates in the sweetly scented air of the shop—the smell is feminine, berries maybe. It’s a contrast, or really, a complement to Josie’s scent, which is a little like cinnamon. Pop music pumps through the speakers, Sabrina Carpenter’s tune matching the colorful array of trendy clothes that line the racks.
A woman from behind the counter nods our way. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” she says in a warm, husky voice.
“We will,” Josie says, then turns back to me, still studying my face like she needs to make sure I meant the offer.
“Are you worried that I don’t like shopping?” I ask, trying to understand her.
She seems to give that some thought for a few seconds. “No. Well, maybe. But mostly, it’s so generous of you. But you totally don’t have to. I’ll be fine. My friend’s place isn’t that far.”