Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
My cheeks flush, but I can’t suppress my genuine smile. “I hope you like it.”
“I want to know what you like about it. Maybe you could tell me when you finish your shift.”
As seems to be his habit, it’s not really a question. But it’s still more of a request than a demand.
“Why?” I ask before I can think better of it.
Our date didn’t end well, so I don’t understand why he wants to spend more time with me now.
He sighs and speaks slowly, as though explaining something very obvious. The twinkle in his eyes softens any condescension that I might read in his tone. “Is it so hard to believe that I’m interested in getting to know you?”
My mouth opens and then closes. I take a moment to consider my response before acting on the instinct to give him a polite refusal.
He’s reading my favorite book. Maybe I was hasty to judge him for his career. I recall our commonalities—he also chose to defy his family and forge his own path.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.
My knee-jerk reaction to finding out that he’s a plastic surgeon was to feel self-conscious my own imperfections. That insecurity had been a catalyst that unraveled our date.
It was my perverted reaction to his kiss—the flashback to being attacked and violated—that made me run away entirely.
I still don’t think I’m worthy of this man, but I’m curious enough to know what he thinks of Addie LaRue to consider spending a little more time with him.
I don’t currently have any friends who are avid readers of my preferred genre. Franklin and I have bonded over our love of art and cheesy musicals, and when I go out with my girlfriends from work, we spend most of our time dancing or singing karaoke.
I haven’t indulged in a book club since I dropped out of college and left my old social circle behind.
And I’m burning with curiosity to know why a man like Dane would choose to pick up my favorite book. The fact that he’s reading fiction rather than an autobiography or something similarly pragmatic is intriguing enough to tempt me.
“All right,” I say after a long moment of consideration. “I finish work at five.”
His grin hits me like a beam of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Excellent. There’s a dessert bar on Broad Street. We can indulge in something sweet and talk about the book.”
I summon up a practiced, cheery smile, reminding myself of the simple but happy life I’ve built for myself over the last two years. I can do this. I can deny my darkest impulses and go on another date with Dane.
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
“Abby, we’re getting a line.” Stacy laughs in outwardly friendly admonishment, but it’s a touch too sharp to be casual.
I’m being an annoying colleague. The drink orders have piled up during my short conversation with Dane.
“I’ll see you at the end of your shift,” he says, then strolls away with his Americano and book in hand.
He settles into a leather armchair and reads for hours. I struggle to focus on my job when he’s flipping the pages with those deft fingers. A few times, my mind wanders to what that careful, almost reverent touch would feel like on my own spine rather than the hardcover. I think I might be a little jealous of a book, and that’s mildly ridiculous.
12
DANE
Abigail is still wearing her basic black t-shirt and jeans from her barista shift, but I can’t stop staring at her as though she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Her apron is gone, and I almost miss the sight of her silly badges—the grinning iced coffee had accompanied her unicorn and lavender cupcake today.
But her sunny smile is bright enough to eclipse the cheery expressions on her shiny pins.
I blink and try to ease the hungry set of my jaw, arranging my features into a genial smile that won’t scare her. During our date at The Magnolia, she seemed to enjoy dancing on the edge of my savage energy, so I didn’t bother to fully harness it. With Abigail, I’m able to let the mask slip ever so slightly, and she doesn’t cringe in horror.
Something spooked her when we kissed for the first time, but I know that she revels in dark sensuality. I just have to tread carefully until she’s ready to trust me enough to accept the deviant games that we both want to play.
She offers a breezy goodbye to her coworkers and then rounds the coffee bar to approach me. As she closes the distance between us, she tugs loose the tie that gathers her thick hair into a messy bun for work. Sable, wavy locks cascade down her back, and that perfect amethyst curl falls in front of her shoulder. She winds it around her slender finger, smoothing a few errant strands.