Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“Miss Amato,” I said, moving closer.
“Are you ready to take the tour?” she asked, waving toward the front of the building. “Don’t mind the… vaginal graffiti,” she said, making a snorting laugh escape me. “I’m actually kind of a fan of it,” she added, going to the door and unlocking it. “That will be all, Bass,” she said, not even giving the man a second look.
“Trouble with your… assistant?”
“He has a lot of opinions. And sometimes forgets I’m in charge.”
Everything about that rang true to me.
Maybe I was just seeing things that weren’t there.
Still, maybe it would be wise to learn more about the woman I was getting into bed with.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
CHAPTER SIX
Saff
I’d been nervous about the tour with Soren. Mostly because Bass couldn’t mind his own business and decided to show up to lecture me about how I should and shouldn’t behave.
I didn’t see him dyeing his hair at eight in the morning, then slipping his feet into mile-high heels so he didn’t look like a little girl playing at being a boss babe.
Alright, fine. I didn’t greet Soren right at first. But he’d surprised me.
I mean, how much of my little argument with Bass had he seen? Or, worse yet, heard?
He showed no signs of suspicion, though, as we moved through the dark, dirty building, each of us occasionally making comments about the changes that would need to be made to get things up to code.
“Do you really think there’s enough room back there for an elevator?” I asked as I came up to the edge of the stage. I was way too short to just hop up there like Soren had done.
“Let’s see, shall we?” Soren asked, leaning down and holding his hands down toward me.
A cool, calm, collected businesswoman wouldn’t allow a man to literally pick her up, would she?
That said, it also seemed rude to ignore him.
The little quirk of his brow—something I took as a challenge—settled the debate for me.
I slipped my hands into his, ignoring that same sizzle I’d felt when we’d first shaken hands, even as it snaked up my arms, across my chest, then downward.
Soren’s hands tightened on mine, and then he was pulling up.
When it came to stature, I certainly looked like the kind of woman who would be picked up. Personality-wise, though, I would probably knee a guy in the groin if he tried.
I’d always been secretly insecure about how short and slight I was. It was hard being a woman in a violent, male-dominated field. It was harder still being a small woman in it. I was underestimated constantly. I had to be twice as tough to get half the respect.
I wasn’t an idiot; I knew how my colleagues talked about me and my “temper.” But they conveniently forget that it’s not until I throw a fit—or a pool ball—that I’m taken seriously.
Somehow, though, nothing about Soren lifting me up off my feet and onto the stage felt uncomfortable. Or like he was judging me.
I was just thinking that I wouldn’t mind if he picked me up by my ass and carried me to bed when my feet landed on the stage.
The problem was that (A) I was distracted and (B) I temporarily forgot I was wearing heels. So when I put my weight down, it landed wrong, and I wobbled. Hard.
Soren’s arm shot out, going around my lower back to stop me from falling. But he’d overestimated his strength, knocking me right into his chest.
All my air rushed out of me. At his nearness, at the breadth of his chest against me, his strong arm around me, his leather and tobacco scent overpowering me.
My heartbeat tripped into overdrive as a flush crept across my chest, up my neck, and bloomed over my cheeks.
My gaze flicked up to his, finding him already watching me intensely.
On my hip, his fingers tightened ever so slightly.
I knew I needed to move away, to put professional distance back between us.
In the end, though, it was Soren who came to his senses first.
“A bit like a newborn foal in those things, Miss Amato,” he said, the warmth in his eyes tamping down the knee-jerk irritation that always bubbled up when someone teased me.
“Saff,” I corrected.
“Saff,” he repeated. And we just weren’t going to talk about the way a little shiver moved through my insides at the sound of my name from between his lips. “Is that short for something?”
“Saffron,” I admitted before I could think better of it.
Why did I just tell him that?
I never told anyone that.
No one in the family knew that.
I’d had it legally changed to Saff years ago, so no one would ever find out.
“Saffron,” he repeated. As much as I hated that name—and the woman who gave it to me—I found I didn’t mind it so much when he said it. Actually, it was kind of nice. “That’s an unusual name.”