Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
“Last night was a one-night stand,” she says. “They aren’t my favorite encounters—”
“There’s that word again.”
“But I’m not complaining about getting fucked this time.”
Hearing those words come out of her pretty little mouth sends a shot of adrenaline through my body.
“Let’s thank God for that,” I mumble as I adjust myself under my desk.
“As I was saying, they aren’t my favorite situations,” she says, emphasizing the word, “but they do serve a purpose. Lingering around makes it less of a one-night stand and more like a date that went on too long, and now both parties are uncomfortable.”
Fair enough.
“I left,” she continues, “to maintain the integrity of our arrangement.”
“I didn’t know we had a particular arrangement.”
“It wasn’t a signed and sealed contract, by any means. But there was definitely an unspoken agreement between us. Don’t you think?”
Do I?
Generally, I’d say yes. That sleeping with a woman you just met constitutes something light and simple. All I’m positive about, though, is that I feel like I’m about to get into a contract dispute. And while I’m a great negotiator, I might be out of my depths with her. So I ignore her point and switch gears.
“How long are you in town? Through tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“How did you know that?”
“You told me in the airport.”
I think she smiles.
“By the time your new card arrives, you’ll be leaving,” I tell her. “There’s even a possibility of it not showing up until after you’re gone, and in that case, you’ll have two cards floating out there.”
“This is true,” she admits.
I have an opening. I just have to pick my way through it—and hand over the steering wheel—carefully.
Taking a deep breath, I choose my next words carefully.
“If you have a good two days—a day and a half at this point—left in Savannah, you’re going to need to eat,” I say, stroking her practical side. “Meet me for lunch. Get your card back. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
I tip my chair back farther and await her response. I have her considering my suggestion, which was a step I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to make.
But I have. And now I have to stay quiet before I ruin the progress.
After what feels like an eternity, she sighs.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“I’m thinking that I’m not used to men talking logic.”
I laugh. “I hate to break the news to you, but I’m also well-versed in reasoning.”
“Did your mother teach you that too?”
“I think that was actually my father.”
She laughs, her voice blending with mine. “Fine. You’re right. As much as I want to, I cannot come up with a strong argument as to why meeting you and retrieving my card isn’t the easiest answer.”
My seat squeals as I sit upright and put all four wheels on the floor. “What hotel are you staying at?”
“Have you ever been to the restaurant called Hillary’s House?”
“That wasn’t the question, but yes. All the time.”
“Is it good?”
I get to my feet. “Does this mean you’re letting me buy you lunch?”
“This means I might let you sit with me while I eat. And if you happen to order your own sandwich, I can’t stop you.”
I shake my head as I swipe my keys and Blaire’s credit card and put them in my pocket. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“See you then.”
Ten
Blaire
“Welcome to Hillary’s House.” A woman smiles brightly as she closes the cash register drawer. “Grab a seat and I’ll be with you shortly.”
I grab the strap of my purse on my shoulder and take in the little restaurant pegged as a hidden gem in the touristy pamphlets in my hotel room. It’s bright and filled with sunshine. Instrumental music plays so softly that if there were more than a handful of people inside, I doubt you could hear it at all.
The décor is much fancier than I imagined with dark woods and chairs upholstered with printed cloth instead of the pleather I envisioned when the description included the word diner.
I spot an empty table in the back corner. But before I can take a step in that direction, a low, gravelly voice rakes across my skin.
“Good afternoon, Miss Gibson.”
I hear his voice behind me before I hear the door chime or feel the warm breeze of outside air, which is unfortunate. A few seconds’ warning that I’m about to come face-to-face with Holt Mason would’ve been appreciated.
Instead, I pivot instinctively as if the cells of my body are magnetized to his in some invisible way. My gaze finds his as a slow smirk spreads across his lips.
“Hello,” I say.
He’s wearing a pair of dark denim jeans and a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A pair of sunglasses are tucked into the top of his shirt.
His dark hair looks fresh from a shower, and despite the fact that I know he didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, he appears rested and energized. It’s a look that’s both magazine-worthy and effortlessly sexy. It’s also slightly irritating.