Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
There. He won’t think my interest is about him now. It’s just how I am.
He chuckles, a playful glint in his eyes. “And so do I, Banks. So do I.”
He goes quiet. That’s rare for him, but he’s busy studying me, like I’m the curiosity now, and his gaze unnerves me. So much for the unsexual swim.
Time to take this conversation to safer ground.
Something completely innocuous.
“And how was your nap, Sleeping Beauty?” I ask.
“Invigorating. You should try them sometimes.” Of course he naps. Of course he enjoys them.
I shrug. “I don’t nap.”
“Not even on planes?” He lifts a brow in question.
Crap. “That’s not really a true nap,” I say evenly, since I’m not going to let him catch me on a technicality.
“Why does that not surprise me? Both that you don’t nap, and that you have a definition of what constitutes a nap,” he says.
But I’m done with this topic.
Adult sleeping habits.
Adult sleeping arrangements.
And adult desires.
Dancing around it is tricky, though. A part of me wants to tell him I’m bi. Just get it off my chest. But what’s the point? Hell, even Brett from the office doesn’t know yet. It just never came up. For the last seven years, I’ve lived, for all intents and purposes, as a straight-passing man. I haven’t even touched a guy since college. Though I do remember those days of experimentation fondly.
Quite fondly.
“In the mood for some dinner?” Asher asks, shifting gears too.
I picture dinner out on the town, and I’m not sure I want to grab grub with him again.
That’s not because it would look like a date. I don’t care what strangers think of me. But because it might feel like one, him and me out at night, sitting under an umbrella in this tropical destination with other couples around us, wearing skimpy clothes, sipping cocktails, touching each other.
All that desire on display.
Then we’d leave together, walking through the doorway here after dark. There’d be that awkward moment when we’re in the living room of the guest house together, about to go our separate ways.
The moment when we could smash into each other and finally, fucking finally, touch.
My skin flashes hot at the thoughts flickering before my eyes. I adjust the towel, making sure it’s strategically placed. And I muster my best casual voice. “Let’s order in. What have you got in mind?”
“How about Mexican?” he asks. “There’s this place I know with great tamales.”
“Sounds great,” I agree, and when I scan the scenery, it’s about as damn sexy as going out. The water glistens in the fading sunlight. Soon, the sky will darken. Temptation is hemming me in from every direction.
When Asher orders, I pick up my phone for a distraction. A note from Valencia pops up on my screen.
Valencia: Excuse my manners from earlier! I also meant to ask how’s the hot best man?
I sneak a glance surreptitiously while the superhot best man chats with the restaurant. This topic isn’t entirely distracting, but maybe I can just will away the desire by declaration.
Mark: Still smug, still hot, but I’ve got it under control.
Valencia: Then don’t forget tonight! You know what premiers on Webflix. I demand a recap after you watch.
Mark: Oh, right! I’m so there!!!
That’s what I need. Some TV distraction.
Although I’m not sure this show will have the right effect on me. Valencia and I are a little obsessed with checking out the spin-off of Archibald Lane, a period piece that was all the rage on Webflix last year. The show was good, but there was one particular storyline I glommed onto, and it included a smoking-hot kiss that made it to the top of my spreadsheet. 1A.
The kiss continues, supposedly, in the spin-off.
I promise her a full review, then put my phone down.
When Asher hangs up, he meets my gaze. “Food will be here in thirty,” he says, and is it just me, or do his eyes drift down my chest, lingering there, right there, on my pecs?
I want to do the same to him—to give him a long, lingering eye fuck. But doing that also terrifies me. I take risks with gobs of money every day. I have iron balls when the market is volatile. When it comes to men? My risk tolerance is at the level of a CD. Better yet, a savings account earning .01 percent.
“What did you order?” I ask, since that’s the savings account question, and that’s how I’m playing things tonight.
“Mexican. It’s spicy. I didn’t ask if you like spice. My bad,” he says, cocking his head to the side like he’s studying me once again. “Do you like spice?”
His words say one thing, but his tone says do you like sex and would you like it with me?
Or am I just hoping he’s going fishing again? Maybe it’s more than hope, especially since his hazel eyes glimmer with something that feels a lot like rabid curiosity.