Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
I'm going to kill Francois for making me come here.
I seethe through clenched teeth, as the thumping bass assaults my ears.
The enormous, chromed-and-mirrored space bustles with the current Manhattan ‘it’ crowd. Everyone is so clearly impressed with themselves; taking pictures with those stupid fucking duck lips like their lives are a never ending happily ever after.
I glance at my watch. How much longer can I stand to wait?
My department store chain is hot for a piece of land in Houston for an expansion plan that’s been in the pipeline for two years. I found land that’s perfect, but the owners have been tough as fuck to deal with. I’m here to meet them once more, face to face, and convince them to seal the deal.
I’ll get my hands on that land. I’m used to getting my way. But my Chief Financial Officer, Francois, is going to be in for some shit for making me wait in the middle of this fucking circus.
I can’t stand drunks.
Overenthusiastic idiots who think they’re the most interesting people on the planet.
I also hate people that are late. Time is precious, especially mine.
Five more minutes, then I’m out. Fuck them.
There are other ways of convincing the parties in play to sell me that land. I’ll sic my PI on them, come up with some dirt—real or perceived—plant evidence, do whatever is needed to push the issue.
Fighting dirty is the only way to fight in my opinion.
Riotous laughter sounds from the table at the end of the bar. A woman stumbles on her mile-high heels as she makes a graceless run for the restroom. A man in a crumpled suit dances alone and off-beat in the center of the dance floor.
I can’t fathom why people think a night of drinking and hooking up is a way to unwind. Waking up to pounding temples, with regret sleeping naked next to you, could hardly make for a relaxing morning.
I glare at my watch and then toward the entrance of the bar. I'm done. I can’t last the final three minutes of my five-minute commitment.
I turn to leave, but I freeze.
There’s a girl.
A girl in a lavender dress.
I note the blushed cheeks, uneasy eyes, arms wrapped around her waist.
She’s uneasy. Uncomfortable.
I hate that and love it at the same time.
Her dress is girly, not overly sexy, but damn if I’ve ever seen anything sexier. She’s got this young Judy Garland circa Wizard of Oz vibe going on and it stands out in the sea of heroin-chic females surrounding her.
She’s hips and ass and tits, with cherry-pink lips pinched together like she has so much to say and no one to listen.
I’ll listen.
The words reverberate in my head, louder than the deafening pulse of the music.
My visceral reaction upends me. She’s every bit the girl I’ve imagined in my dreams for decades. Eventually I resolved that she didn’t exist except in my fantasies. But what fantasies they were.
What fantasies they are.
She’s walking a straight line on five-inch black patent-leather schoolgirl sort of heels, which screams sober. Waves of her soft, dark-chocolate hair swirl across her cheek as she looks down.
She lifts her hand and hooks a lock of hair behind her ear, showing a delicate golden heart earring and I hate that something has pierced her flesh. I hate that it probably hurt her and I wasn’t there to hold her hand and make sure whoever was doing the job did it right.
What I hate more is the thought that someone else may have bought her those golden hearts. If that someone has a dick, unless it’s a father or brother, I want to hurt them.
I suck in a deep breath watching as her hair falls back to shield her face from me.
The music disappears. No other man, woman or business deal exists for me anymore. The girl in the lavender dress is the center of my universe.
My throat is dry, my heart thrashing in buzzing excitement against my ribcage. If she’s the last thing I ever see, I’ll die a happy man.
She reaches the bar standing just an arm’s length away. Her scent of peaches and purity fills my lungs, and I war against the urge to step closer and push my face into the back of her neck, inhaling her.
My eyes rove over the flawless skin of her arms, the snug bodice of the dress clinging to her curves. The deep V of the fabric in front, showing off the swell of the world’s most perfect tits, and as much joy as that brings me, a fury of hot anger spins inside me too.
Her flesh is exposed for anyone to see. And they have no right. No fucking right. I don’t want any other eyes on her but mine.
I want to put my jacket over her shoulders and shield her from the world. I watch, mesmerized, as she pushes her hair back again and she laughs at something the bartender says.