Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Her eyes narrowed into slits. “A good time, huh? Planning to fuck another wedding planner the night before you destroy her wedding? Oh, wait. It would be the same wedding planner this time, and she’s not going to fall for your charms again.”
I cleared my throat. Even her furious mention of what we’d done in that wine cellar was still enough to make my skin flush hot. She had been the best I’d ever had. By far. I would be a dirty liar if I said I didn’t think about her nearly every day.
“That was a mistake.”
“Fantastic. So you ruined my career and thought sleeping with me was a mistake. Is there anything else you’d like to say to deepen my hatred of you before night falls? Because this is helping. I wasn’t sure I’d have the willpower to murder a sleeping man, but I’m getting there.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Uh, no. I think I’ll stop digging the hole deeper there. Here, let me help you zip that.”
Emma was struggling to close her overstuffed suitcase, so I put a knee on it and tugged the zipper shut.
“You really made the most of this suitcase, huh? Didn’t feel like carrying two?”
“Ever since Ireland, I’ve been doing much smaller weddings. They don’t pay as well, and I wanted to save the bag fees.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling myself wither a little more on the inside. I couldn’t say a single thing right around her. What the fuck was my problem?
We were both kneeling over the suitcase when she met my eyes. “You're here for a reason, and it's not because you're suddenly best friends with my family."
She was right, of course. Lying about why I was here was stupid, but I also thought it might make her less inconsolably pissed if she just heavily suspected it versus having it outright confirmed. Honestly, I was actually a little scared she might really try to kill me in my sleep if I made her any more angry.
For now, the full truth could wait. It hardly mattered, anyway, considering she didn’t believe a word I said.
The walk to my room was silent, broken only by the wheels of her suitcase on the hardwood floors. She had nearly bit my hand off when I offered to carry it for her.
I tried not to notice how the light from the wall sconces caught in her hair, or how she still smelled like vanilla and something uniquely Emma. I did notice the way her perfectly plump ass swayed as she walked, and how every little movement brought me back to the way it had felt to have my hands on her skin—to hear her soft moans and hot breath in my ear.
I felt the impending reveal of my room drawing closer like a small time bomb.
My room was… cozy. That was the polite word for it. The less polite word might be cramped and depressing compared to the luxurious place she just gave up for “Aunt Martha”.
Emma stood in the doorway, taking in the single queen bed, the small sitting area, and the distinct lack of space for two people who weren't actually dating.
"No," she said.
"It's not that bad."
"There's one bed."
"I don’t snore, and I’m a very sound sleeper. I’ll stay on my side.”
She set down her bags and pulled out her laptop. "We need rules."
"Rules?"
"Yes. Rules." She opened PowerPoint with terrifying efficiency. "If we're going to survive this week without killing each other or ruining my sister's wedding, we need structure."
I leaned against the wall, watching as she typed with fierce concentration.
"Are you actually making a presentation about this?" I asked. “Because we could try just talking.”
"Relationships require clear communication and boundaries." She didn't look up. "Even fake ones. And I’m going to do as little actual talking to you as I can manage, thank you very much."
"What happened in Ireland…” I said slowly. “That was real to me.”
Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. For a moment, neither of us breathed.
"That was a mistake. You said it yourself."
For some reason, her words and tone felt like a punch in the gut. God damn. I’d known Emma Marshall had been lingering in my head for years now, but I hadn’t realized how easily she could still get to me.
I tried to talk to her a few times, but she just hushed me and continued letting her fingers fly over the keyboard. Apparently, I had to sit patiently while she made this ridiculous presentation.
I poured myself a water, ate some nuts from the mini-bar, and mostly observed her as she sat cross-legged on my bed.
My bed.
Emma Marshal—the girl I was dead-sure had gotten away and would never come back—was currently sitting on my bed, looking like every sexual fantasy I’d ever had all wrapped into one small, curvy package.