Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“You know, I dated a girl named Barbara Ann once,” he says after he’s swallowed a bite of toast.
“Doesn’t surprise me.” I chew slowly. “I bet you’ve also dated a Rhonda, and every other girl the Beach Boys sing about. You’ve also dated every actress and model in the eighteen to thirty-five demographic.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I Googled you last night.”
“No, you didn’t. We slept in separate bedrooms.”
I roll her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep, so I researched you.”
Winking, he polishes off the rest of his breakfast. To my surprise, he washes his dish and sets it to dry on the plastic tray on the counter, then leaves the frying pan in the sink to soak. Wow. Even Summer doesn’t do her dishes this quickly, and I’ve dubbed her the ultimate neat-freak.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Ben asks.
“I just told you I researched you and you want to know why I couldn’t sleep?”
“Yep.” He grins. “So why couldn’t you?”
I was too busy fantasizing about licking every inch of your body. “I was too tired.”
“Right.” It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me.
“Anyway,” I go on, hoping he’ll leave it at that, “it turns out you’re quite the playboy.”
I don’t mention the unwelcome pang of jealousy I experienced while reading about Ben Barrett’s conquests. Considering the only type of appearance Ben will be making in my world is a cameo, I have no idea what to make of the claws that came out when I saw all those photos of him with other women.
He looks insulted. “I’m not a playboy.”
“Sure you are. You travel the world and have casual affairs with gorgeous women. That makes you a playboy.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Or would you prefer fuckboy?”
He raises an eyebrow right back. “Well, with you getting laid only twice a year, I can see why my reputation might intimidate you.”
“Sometimes three times,” I correct. Then I scowl. “You really are one of those annoyingly cheerful morning people, aren’t you?”
“I sure am.”
He waits while I shove the last mouthful of eggs into my mouth, and then takes my plate. To my surprise, he washes it as well.
“Don’t tell me you dated Martha Stewart too,” I grumble.
Ben wipes his hands with a pink dishcloth. “No, but I grew up with one. My mother never let me leave the kitchen until it was spotless.” As if to punctuate that, he uses the dishcloth to wipe the counter until it squeaks. “So what are we doing today?”
The question catches me off-guard, but I quickly cover up my surprise. “Well, I have a ton of stuff to do, and you, I assume, will be finding a hotel. Or maybe you’ll be talking with your publicity people about your recent scandal. I read about that too, by the way.”
His cheerful expression fades. “You did?”
“Yep. So that rich lady left you her money, huh?”
I hit a nerve. I can tell from the way his features harden and his eyes narrow into slits. I’d only managed to dig up a few details about Ben’s involvement with Gretchen Goodrich, but enough to suspect how touchy a subject it must be.
Goodrich was the heiress to a salad dressing empire and wife of an Academy Award-winning director. She lost the battle with breast cancer three months ago, and from what I read she’d left Ben close to twenty million dollars in her will. The press hinted at an affair between Ben and the fifty-three-year-old, but since there doesn’t seem to be any actual evidence of it, I’ve decided it’s most likely a rumor. Still, Ben must have been pretty close to the woman if she’d left him a part of her fortune.
“You can’t believe everything you read,” Ben says in a mild tone. The frown leaves his face, but his stiff posture tells me he’s still on edge.
Before I can say anything else, he breezes past me, bare feet padding against the tiled floor. I figure he’s heading to Summer’s room to get dressed, so when he flops down on the couch and reaches for the remote control, I bolt to my feet and scurry into the living room.
“What are you doing?” I demand. “I just told you, I’ve got tons of stuff to do.”
“I’ll wait.” He flips on the TV and turns it to ESPN.
“You can’t.” Exasperation climbs up my chest. “I have a really busy day.”
Ben presses the mute button and shoots me an expectant look. “Doing what?”
“You want me to write you a list?”
“No, a verbal break-down would be fine.”
Oh, I’ll give him a verbal break-down, all right. I don’t care how sexy he looks in those jeans or how enticing his chest is. It’s Sunday, and Sunday is my day. The only day I don’t work or volunteer or take notes in a classroom. Sure, I spend the free time cleaning and doing homework, but it’s free time nonetheless.