Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
I grab a sweater, then stop at the door, pausing before I reach for the knob. A memory flashes by of my last date—not with Lucas, but the one with Gunnar. The one where he ghosted me after he saw my body. I shudder from the hurt and shame I felt in every cell.
But I try to stay in the present, using my tools. I catalog my surroundings. I’m in my home, the door is red, my shirt is lavender—Maeve was right about the color—and my hair is…down.
Not only down, but blown-out and smelling faintly of gardenias.
Gunnar is the past. Max is the present. I peer into the mirror by the door, checking my reflection one more time. I’m wearing jeans, short black boots, and a stylish T-shirt with the neckline cut so it slopes down my shoulder—my left one, showing everything. That’s on purpose. I swear I can hear Marie’s voice, saying, “Damn, you look good.”
I do look good. I feel good. And still, my stomach churns with nerves.
You can show him who you are.
With a resolute nod at my reflection, I leave, heading down the steps and out the door to the stoop. At the curb Max is leaning against his car, looking like a tall drink of a man, wearing jeans that hug his muscular thighs and a Henley that shows off all his rippling muscles. Aviator shades cover his eyes, but he whips them off the second he sees me.
A quiet wow forms on his lips, and that settles the last remnants of my nerves. I walk over to him, but I’m careful not to touch him in public. “Hey.”
That one syllable sounds like it contains the multitude of my messy feelings for him. Feelings that get messier by the hour.
“Your hair,” he says, sounding mesmerized, like he can’t even finish the sentence. He simply stares, transfixed.
I touch the soft strands. “I got a blowout this morning.” Then, feeling daring, I add, “Someone who has a thing for me got me a lifetime supply.”
I’m not usually that forward in assessing a man’s feelings, but Max has made that easy too.
And I’m rewarded when he nods approvingly. “A very big thing.”
That fluttery feeling returns in full force, getting stronger. He opens the door and I slide into the passenger seat and buckle in. When he gets into the driver’s seat, he turns to me, filthy appreciation in his eyes. A rumble seems to coast past his lips. “It’s impossible not to touch you.”
This man makes me feel so wanted. “But you have to behave.”
“I don’t want to,” he says.
“Do it anyway,” I say in a sensual tone.
But because he’s Max, he slides his hand down my thigh, stealing a caress, then leaning in just a little bit as he inhales me. “Mmm,” he murmurs.
I tremble.
Then he lets go and says with so much honesty in his voice, “I love this shirt.”
He couldn’t have said a more perfect thing. My throat tightens as I say, “Thank you.”
He starts the car and cruises out of Russian Hill, past the Marina. As we’re crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, my shoulders feel lighter. My mind, a little more free. The city fades away and with it, my worries about being with someone I’m not supposed to be with vanish into the distance.
Or really, I choose to leave them behind.
He drives farther, past Petaluma and toward Lucky Falls, a small town in Wine Country where it’s always sunny and sixty-five degrees. Once we’re there, he cruises through the town square, then past it, toward the outskirts, where he pulls over outside a red farmhouse on a hill. But before he gets out, he runs a hand along my exposed shoulder. “I love that you wore this,” he says, his tone straightforward, no teasing in it.
“It’s for you,” I say, because he deserves to know how he makes me feel—wanted, accepted, desired with no reservations. “I wore it for you.”
He holds my gaze for a long beat, his eyes darkening as he says, “I want to keep earning that.”
I swallow roughly, unsure what to say next, but loving that he’s noticed I’m wearing less and showing more than I have in the longest time. And that he likes it. “I bet you will,” I finally say.
He scans outside of the car then, satisfied the coast is clear, he reaches for my hand and presses my palm to his mouth, giving me a soft kiss. “And now I get to show you what a date should be.”
I arch a challenging brow, returning to our playful ways. “But I thought you said lunches were weak,” I say, turning his words around on him.
His jaw drops. “Holy shit. I did say that.”
“What do you have to say for yourself now, Lambert?”
But his cocky smile returns as he runs a hand through my hair. “Don’t worry. I’m going to have you all to myself,” he says, then he lowers his voice, and repeats in a more sultry tone. “And then I’m going to have you all to myself.”