Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 123(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
Honestly, even what I’d said about him in the column was far more intense than anything I’d normally say. Corner Chat generally prompts compassion from me, not name-calling and indignant anger.
Why does he get me so fired up? What hold does this man have on me?
To hell with the train. I’m walking in the hopes that it’ll calm me down. Striding down the pavement, I try to bring peace to the furious thunder of thoughts roiling in my head. But my body continues to buzz with a strange passion and anger because Pierce was so out of line, so smug and pompous. The whole time we were in that cafe, I felt myself resisting the urge to grab him and shake him by his collar. At first, I thought I wanted to smack some sense into him, but now, as the adrenaline runs out, recognition is dawning. I wanted to kiss him.
What? But it’s true. I am so strangely attracted to this man, and it’s a ridiculous feeling. I know he’s wrong for me. If nothing, he is the opposite of my ideal man, being arrogant and materialistic. He also hates me, never forget.
And yet, Pierce Lane is insanely compelling. What is it about the alpha male? It's certainly not the money, or even his achingly blue eyes. It's his confidence and sheer masculinity, and the way he carries himself as if he knows all eyes are on him.
Plus, this guy is from money. He’s Winston Lane’s son, and I’ve followed Winston Lane’s storied business career for years. The elderly man is best known for his wildly successful chain of luxury hotels and resorts, which have been around since the 1950’s.
Hmm, I wonder how old that makes Pierce. He seemed to be somewhere around his forties? Maybe late thirties? Definitely way too old for me. Because I've never been with a man more than five years my senior, but it's a scintillating thought. What would it be like? Someone with skilled, practiced hands caressing my curves. Someone who knows how to kiss, instead of the pimply, gangly guys I’ve been seeing too much of recently.
Oh god. I’m turned on. Walking with my head bowed, I try to ignore the arousal that shames me. But the thing is that in this moment, I would give anything to run my hands all over the hard body beneath that perfect suit. I’d give anything to hear Pierce’s blue eyes flash as he whispers my name. I’d sell my soul for a night with the handsome billionaire … even if he already hates my guts.
6
Pierce
After she leaves the cafe, I still hear her voice.
My anger is slowly evaporating. I try to hang onto it, but it floats right out of the coffee house with her.
I still feel indignant and wronged, of course. That’s not going to go away because somebody slandered me in the papers. But the pure hatred seems to have faded from my senses, leaving instead the musk of arousal.
What's so bad about spending a lot of money on a bracelet, anyhow? I sent Maria an exquisite diamond bracelet and not a bag of shit. Besides, don't women want nice gifts? I thought I was doing the right thing by Maria. I thought it was the kind thing to do. If she was so damn hurt by it, why couldn't she just tell me instead of writing that damned letter for the public to read?
Sometimes, I think I am truly done with New York City. This place is filled with drama queens and over the top nonsense. It’s not as if I actually need to be in my office to run the business. All my siblings have moved into their country homes full time, and when I visit, I’m filled with an urge to throw my phone in the lake and never return to Manhattan again. That can’t be good.
Well, that’s a bit overly dramatic; I’d want to get my stuff, and go back the city when I inevitably get restless. But the idea of leaving remains. I am fucking through with the rat race. I’m done with women thinking they know me because they googled me or read about me or heard a story about me. I am over everybody getting angry that I don’t live up to their fictionalized idea of Mr. Alpha Male.
I’m sick of the noise, too, not to mention the pollution and giant buses that practically run you over rumbling down the street. The Citibike riders? Even worse. Believe it or not, I’ve almost been mowed down by two or three of those bikers while strolling through the city.
Fuck. I try the bit of croissant that Casey was too indignant to finish before storming out. It's dry and overly sweet. Without even realizing it, I find myself wondering if she liked it. Damnit. All trains of thought lead back to the beautiful brunette. Grimly, I pay the check, leaving a generous tip.