Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
As I rise from my chair, my stomach feels like it’s dropped through my intestines. For the one millionth time, I wonder what the hell I’m doing. This isn’t what I went to college to achieve, but I have bills to pay, and monster-sized student loans to clear. Writing articles about genitals and the humans attached to them for Fine Line Magazine is the best paid gig I can find. My parents keep telling me to focus on the money. I’m constantly reminded that I don’t have the means to pick and choose what I write about, but it doesn’t feel good to suppress all the hopes I had about making a difference in the world.
“Clear your diary, Allie,” Kirsty says firmly as I reach the doorway to her office. “I need you on this tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” There’s no way she’s put together all the arrangements today. She must have known what she had planned for me and didn’t share it until the last minute. Ugh. Either she believes I have no life, or she doesn’t care that I have one she’s about to mess up. I mean, what would happen if I had a boyfriend? He wouldn’t exactly be dancing with happiness about this arrangement.
It’s probably a good thing I put the ‘s’ firmly into single.
“Your ten men are arriving at the beach house tomorrow. You need to be there to welcome them.”
My ten men? “Okay.”
She nods curtly. “Enjoy your interviews.” The last word is said with long drawn-out emphasis before she winks. She actually winks. It’s like witnessing a Gorgon crack a smile.
“I’ll try.” Shuddering as I round the corner, I inhale deeply and try to blow out my tension. It’s not that I’m scared of my boss. Not at all. She’s formidable, but not unreasonable. It’s just that every step I take in this job brings me further from the path I want to be on, and the distance between me and my dreams makes my heart thud weirdly and my palms sweat.
At my desk, I place the keys for the beach house next to my water bottle and tip out the contents of the envelope. I find the address of the beach house first. It’s two hours' drive away and on a stretch of coastline I’ve always wanted to visit. The pictures of where I’m going to be staying for the next week are breathtaking; high ceilings and a modern interior combined with an outdoor pool and entertaining area that are impressive enough to host a bougie wedding party.
Beneath the property description, I find Carson’s profile again. Just looking at his photo makes my cheeks hot. Maybe it’s his shaved head and strong jawline, or his blue eyes that stare into mine with as much intensity as if he was standing before me. Maybe it’s reading about his occupation as a tattoo artist and the way my mind immediately imagines the ink on his skin. But it’s probably the highlighted statement of his dick size that makes my face heat to the shade of a sun ripened tomato.
Ten Inches.
How is that even a physical possibility? There’s a ruler standing in a pot on my desk and the ten-inch marker seems impossibly high. What would that look like, standing straight like a baton or a nightstick? What would Carson look like naked, covered only in tattoos, holding his ten-inch cock like a weapon?
A god of war.
A man who could destroy cities and rebuild them with his own bare hands.
And I’m a ridiculous woman with too much imagination who can’t look at a man naked without bursting into flames.
None of my friends know I’m still a virgin. If Dawn found out, I think her head would explode. She has nine boyfriends. Nine. The amount of sex that girl must be having shouldn’t be legal. I probably won’t achieve a years worth of her sexual exploits in my lifetime.
It’s not that I’m a prude.
Far from it.
It’s just that I’ve been so busy with my studies and work that I’ve never taken the time to lift my head to check out the available men. This office isn’t exactly throbbing with hot prospects. The thing with writing for a women’s magazine is it tends to be women who are interested enough in the subject matter to write it. Brian from the mailroom and Colin from accounting aren’t setting anybody’s loins ablaze. The absence of male eye candy hasn’t done me any favors. Now, just a photo of a hot man is enough to make me flustered. If I can’t even look at Carson’s photo without combusting, how the hell am I going to cope with living with ten men for seven days and interviewing them about their dicks?
My boss really hasn’t chosen the best candidate for this job.
Maybe I should tell her to find someone else. I could nudge Grace or Rihanna in her direction. Both of them would eat this assignment up like a caramel sundae.