Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“I get it, Mr. Mysterious.”
“No,” I reply. I might not be her white knight, but I’m not a complete twat either. But that’s not to say I can’t have a little fun with this.
“No?” she repeats, her expression turning quizzical.
“No, you don’t get it. Not for free, at least.”
“Wow!” She gives an embarrassed-sounding chuckle as her gaze dips, her lashes like the dark sweep of an angel’s wing. If I believed in angels, I reckon they’d look a bit like her. Petite, curvy, and with more than a bit of heaven in the sway of the arse.
“Where’d you say this wedding was?” I ask as we turn into the evening hustle of Lexington.
“It’s at the Pierre.”
So I’m pretty much backtracking to the Plaza. It’ll be fun if I bump into anyone from that wedding. Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m really into wedding cake.
“You can let go of my arm.” I angle my attention her way. “I won’t run off.”
She gives a soft laugh as she glances at me from under her lashes. “Maybe I’m not willing to take that chance. Especially as it took so much persuasion to get you here.”
“Some would say ‘persuasion.’” Others emotional blackmail.
“Besides, these shoes are kind of high,” she says, glancing down at the pointed toes of her green satin heels.
Like a fool, I do too. Dainty ankles and tiny feet. They’d look so fucking good resting against my—
“Vanity, thy name is woman.” She releases a soft sigh. “And the devil, well, he must be Jimmy Choo.”
I think the devil must be sitting in my brain if the image of those dainty ankles propped on my shoulders is any indication. “We could catch a cab, if you like,” I offer, engaging a mental modesty shield. For her benefit.
“You’re very sweet.”
She wouldn’t say that if she could see the images running through my head. Not that they mean anything. She’s an attractive woman and I’m a straight, red-blooded male, that’s all. A red-blooded male who has allowed her to think I sell sex for a living.
Fucking hell.
“It’s all part of the service.” How easily the words fall from my mouth. I should stick to them, stick to the story. Like I said to Fin earlier, nothing good comes out of a one-night stand. Except the obvious, which is fun but short lived. “Who’s Ava?” I ask, thinking of earlier.
“My neighbor. I kind of ran my idea by her, mainly because she has a younger brother and—”
“Carl?”
She grimaces. “Turns out her brother is only a kid. In my defense, he looks way older than seventeen.”
“Oh.” I draw the sound out. “Corrupting youth?”
“Not if I can help it. Anyway, Ava suggested Carl. They work out of the same center.”
“Do people actually cuddle for a living?” Sounds a bit far fetched.
“It’s just a side gig for Ava. She teaches yoga mainly, but that doesn’t mean she’s not militant about the benefits of cuddling. Touch is a basic human need, according to her. Forgoing it is all kinds of bad for a person’s physical, mental, and emotional health.”
“Right.” Sounds like money for old rope, if you ask me.
“I guess not everyone has someone to hold them,” she continues, “but what I can’t get my mind around is that the sessions are sixty minutes. Who wants to be held for an hour? I don’t even want to have sex for an hour.”
I laugh. At least until I realize she’s not joking. Someone hasn’t been living up to their potential.
“Don’t tell me,” she deadpans. “Your clients expect bang for their buck.”
Literally, I would imagine. Not that I’m about to explain what the women I sleep with can expect from me, imaginary clients or otherwise.
I sense her studying me a second before she says, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Can’t stop you.” I can, however, opt not to answer. Or opt to stretch the truth a bit more. I haven’t outright lied to her. It’s more that she assumed. And that I haven’t put her right.
This is so gonna come back to bite me in the arse.
“You said you’d been to your ex’s wedding earlier. I suppose I’ve been wondering if she minded what you do for a living.”
“I have a rule.” I have a motto. Why not a rule? I scuff the soles of my shoes against the sidewalk for a step or two, stalling as I try to formulate said rule. “I don’t talk about my private life. Not when I’m with a date.” I sound like such a wanker. What woman would be interested in that level of bullshit?
“I could argue we’re not on a date.”
“And I would contend that, right now, you need me to be someone other than myself. So my private life remains just that.”
“But if I met you in Starbucks tomorrow, say?”
“Then someone hit me on the head and dragged me in there. Starbucks is all that’s wrong in the world.”