Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
The way he flashed me a swift smile had my heart thumping hard in my chest.
“I would hope so,” he stated. “And call me Cutter.”
“Cutter,” I said. “My name is Milena Semyonov.”
He grinned. “I know.”
“Oh.” I hit my forehead with my hand. “Last night. You probably got that, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he said as he turned to survey the space. “What’s your budget?”
I looked at the space with him and said, “I don’t have one.”
He turned to me and I twisted my head to look at him.
Damn, he was closer than I thought, and it made my mouth dry.
Which was, of course, when my stomach started to make itself known.
My stomach felt so bloated today after the pizza I’d inhaled last night when I got home that it’d been churning with it all morning.
I pressed a hand to my stomach and felt the pressure start to build.
I steeled my stomach and reiterated, “There is no limit. I want this done right. I don’t care how much it costs. If I cared, I would’ve gone with the builder’s recommendation. Instead, I called around and had you suggested to me well over four times. So I called you.” I paused. “I was aware that you weren’t cheap. I was warned. But the work that I’ve seen of yours…it’s phenomenal. And I want this place exactly how I want it.”
“Good,” he said. “Now tell me what you want.”
I did, explaining how I wanted floor-to-ceiling shelving behind the register. How I wanted the register/counter area to be one huge island with glass blocking the public from the product. I told him about my wants and desires with the side of the room.
I told him about how I wanted the bathrooms to look. I told him about the window from my back area to Maven’s kitchen area, so we could pass her product back and forth, along with the coffees that were ordered on her side.
And after I was done, my stomach was now so bloated with gas that I didn’t dare move too much from where I was planted.
During the entire discussion, the man—Cutter—walked around and took note of everything.
Only when I was done with my explanation did he say, “I’m going to take a lot of measurements today. I’ll do that now if you’re okay with it.”
I was.
“Sure,” I said a little bit desperately. “When you get done in here, let me know, and you can measure my office, too.”
I seriously needed to visit a room that was far away from him.
Far, far away.
Because the gas in my belly was about to explode.
“I’ll be in my office if you need me.” I smiled.
He jerked his chin in the affirmative.
His eyes followed my movement from the main room to the back hallway.
I walked slowly, disappearing into my unfinished office.
The door closed, and I counted to thirty, hoping that my stomach would get under control.
But, of course, it didn’t.
I had trigger foods.
Pizza and beer were two of them, and both of those I’d consumed in volume last night.
I didn’t want to say that I was lactose intolerant, because I wasn’t.
I was more gluten intolerant than anything else.
But in my opinion, the gas was worth the pleasure of eating pizza.
Not to mention, this morning before leaving, I’d had a protein shake that never failed to add to my gassiness.
I sat down in my office chair, then decided…fuck it.
The explosion of air releasing from my body felt like a dream.
God, I really needed to stop eating pizza.
It never failed to really fuck me over.
Worse, I’d gained eight pounds.
Sure, I logically knew that I hadn’t actually gained eight pounds. The majority of it was water weight.
But that didn’t mean that I didn’t look like I was a bloated mess in front of the sexiest guy I’d ever seen.
I hated myself for wearing my running tights, Christmas Crocs, and oversized Great Smoky Mountains sweatshirt that I’d stolen from Dima.
I wasn’t even wearing makeup.
How underwhelming could I be?
There was a sharp bark of laughter outside my door, and I froze, my butthole puckering in fear.
NO.
No, no, no.
Then came the knock on the door.
My cheeks flamed when I realized that there was no way that he hadn’t heard everything that’d just come from my office.
Swallowing bile now, I stood up and prayed that when I opened the door, I’d find a family member outside and not the hottest guy I’d ever seen.
Except, my hopes were dashed as the door swung open on squeaky hinges, and there he was in all his devastatingly sexy glory.
“Haven’t heard one that good since my sister let one off at the Christmas dinner table,” he drawled.
Yep.
Mortification.
That was a thing for me now, I guessed.
Before he could say anything, his phone rang, and he growled.
“Give me a second,” he said as he pulled the phone out of his jeans and placed it to his ear. “Seriously, please stop calling me. It’s getting really fuckin’ old.”