Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“And pirates,” I say, my heart glowing like a Vegas billboard inside my rib cage. “Don’t forget pirates.”
“And sometimes pirates.” He smiles down at me before turning back to Ashley. “Fizzy’s one of the best writers I’ve ever read, and has millions of readers.” His hand makes a slow circle on my back. Does he even know he’s doing it? It’s making me dizzy with want. “She did the network a favor by agreeing, and the ratings are entirely due to her on-screen charisma with every one of the contestants.” He laughs, and it’s smooth and round. “God, I sound like such a producer, don’t I?” He waves himself away with a self-deprecating grin. “Well, anyway, I’ll stop bragging about her now. It was very nice to meet you, Amy.”
With a firm hand, he leads me away.
I allow myself to be guided back up the grassy path and indoors to where a band plays during cocktail hour. Connor nabs us two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and hands me one.
“That was swoony,” I tell him.
“I literally just grabbed it from a tray. Christ, raise your bar a little.”
Laughing, I smack his beefy shoulder with my free hand. “Not that. The way you gently dragged her back there.”
Connor takes a sip, eyes on me, swallows. “I understand her preconceived notions because I used to share them. It wasn’t based on anything factual—I’d never actually read a romance novel. I’m guessing she hasn’t, either.”
“So what happened?”
“Nat set me straight, and I read your books.”
“Yeah, but only, like, one of them.”
“I’ve read almost all of them.” He smiles down at me. “There are quite a lot.”
I pause with the flute pressed to my lips. Champagne bubbles pop and tickle my skin. “What?”
“I told you I would.”
“Yeah, but that’s just a thing people say.”
He shakes his head. “Not me.”
“And your preconceived notions?”
He takes a drink of champagne, head tipped back, neck flexing. Drink lowered again, he meets my gaze. “I can admit when I’m wrong.”
I can hear my pulse in my ears. Is this thirty-seven-year-old Fizzy’s kink? Honesty, accountability, and open communication? “That woman back there? Her name was Ashley, by the way, not Amy.”
His grin is wicked. “I know.”
I don’t even know what to do with the infatuation ballooning in my torso. This bubble of joy rising in me is going to take me out, land me flat on my back if I don’t get my arms around him somehow. Peter and Kailey are still outside, taking couples’ photos post-ceremony. We have such a long night ahead of us, with dinner and toasts and dancing and cake, but I’m going to take advantage of this quiet lull. I take Connor’s glass and set it down on a high-top table, and then lead him to the small dance floor where a few couples sway slowly to the music.
He looks quizzically down at me, but his arms go around my waist when I slide mine up his chest and around his neck. “This is a sexy posture,” he says into my ear.
“Well, I feel sexy things about you.”
“But publicly?” he asks.
“Just give me this one dance, you hot DILF.”
He relaxes against me, hands warm on my lower back, and I rest my cheek to his chest. “You have nice muscles.”
“Thank you.”
“You are a very dapper brick wall.”
A quiet laugh rumbles against my temple.
I close my eyes. “You make it very hard to want to fall for someone else.”
The truth of this weighs me down, an anchor, dragging behind me.
He doesn’t say anything to this, not for five or ten or thirty seconds. I keep waiting for the remorse to land or to feel rejected in his silence, but instead it feels like agreement. He’s holding me so close.
“Maybe we can sneak out of here later and watch the episode,” I say.
“I’d like that.”
“No funny business,” I add. “Despite what I just said. I know we can only be work homies watching the episode together.” I notice he doesn’t say anything to this, either. And then it occurs to me. “Wait. Should you be at the office or—I don’t know—accessible somehow tonight?”
“No,” he says. “Blaine’s on it. He knew taking you here tonight was an important job.”
“A job, huh?”
“I pretend you’re a lot of work. It gets me points with the boss.”
“I am a lot of work.”
This makes him laugh. “Felicity, you are the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” I look up at him, watch his words land on his own ears. A flush crawls up his neck and turns the tips of his ears pink. “You know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean, but you’re also full of shit. Objectively speaking, I am a handful.”
He tucks my head under his chin. “Get over yourself.”
I laugh into his shirt and close my eyes. Fuck, he’s perfect. This is awful.