Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“gorgeous,” he says, “don’t make me come back up there.” I hear a car door shut. “I will if I have to but—”
“Stone, I will meet you tonight at seven,” I assure him. “You can meet me at thirty-one thirty-one Clarke Street. They have the best sangria. I will be there at six fifty-seven to make sure I’m not late.”
“Okay, gorgeous, have a good day at work because I know my day will be better now that I got to taste you.” I put my head back; this fucking guy with his pickup lines.
“How many times has that worked on your dates?” I ask, and I want to kick myself for asking him because it. Does. Not. Matter.
“Don’t know, it’s the first time I’ve ever said it, so I’m banking on one.”
I ignore his words, telling myself he’s obviously lying. No way would he not have game with that face, that body, that confidence. “Bye, Stone.” I hang up on him, and the rest of the day I bury myself with my latest brief, getting ahead of the game.
I rush out of the office at five thirty, shoving the jersey in my bag, along with the iPad. “I’ll see you Monday,” I tell Claudia, who just waves her fingers at me. Friday is a work-from-home day unless I have to be in the office, but luckily, I can work from home tomorrow.
“Good luck with Stone.” She smirks at me as she gets up to leave. “I’ll expect details Monday.”
“I can tell you right now,” I say as the elevator doors open, “nothing will happen.”
I step into the elevator before she calls me a liar. Rushing home, I hop into the shower and then go into my closet. “What do you wear to say I don’t care that you are here, and I don’t want to fuck you?” I ask the rack of clothes, letting the towel drop and slipping on a pair of my lacy silk panties before pulling out my black jeans that I know work wonders for my ass. I walk over and grab a white bra with black embroidery and lace edging before I slip on a long-sleeved white button-down shirt, leaving the first two buttons open so you can see the lacy bra underneath it. I pull the sleeves up to my elbows and slide on my black booties.
My phone buzzes, telling me it’s six thirty, so I rush to grab a leather jacket before I put my phone in my pocket and hurry down to the waiting car. I pull up his Instagram, going to his name.
Ryleigh: I’m in the car on my way.
He answers right away.
Stone: Same. My ETA is twenty minutes. I can’t stop thinking about your lips.
“Good God,” I mumble to myself, putting my phone away before I tell him what I’d like him to do with his lips.
Instead, I look out the window at the people walking together. My finger taps my leg as we make our way down to the restaurant. I’ve chosen this place because it’s got a nice vibe with the low lighting. Plus, the food is good, and their sangria is life. He stops at the curb, and I get out, thanking him. Looking around, I spot Stone waiting for me. A beanie on his head, as his head is down on his phone. “Hey,” I greet, walking to him, and the smile fills his face.
“Hi,” he replies breathlessly, or maybe I’m the one who is breathless. He’s wearing blue jeans with a white button-down shirt and a blue sweater over it. The collar of the shirt and the hem stick out of the sweater. A bomber jacket finishes the look with his white sneakers. “You look—”
“I know,” I say, “gorgeous.” Not giving him a chance to say the word beautiful again. He wraps his arm around my waist and kisses me on the cheek, making my pulse speed up.
“I was going to say good enough to eat,” he whispers in my ear, and now I know why he kisses my cheek. The words send shivers through me. “Shall we go in?”
He pulls open the door for me to step in, and the heat hits me right away. The hostess stands there waiting for us. “Can I help you?”
“Table for two.” I look at her as I take the packed restaurant in.
“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks me as she looks down at her iPad.
“No,” I say.
At the same time, Stone says, “Yes, under Richards.” I look up at him, shocked.
“How did you…?” I ask him as the hostess takes two menus and tells us to follow her.
“I wasn’t going to give you an excuse to bail on me, so I made sure,” he explains, putting his hand on my lower back, pushing me to walk, while my head is still blown that he took time out to come and make sure we got a table.