Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Looking down, she mumbles, “Damn it.”
I look around for napkins. Unfortunately, the delivery service forgot those. I head for the break room. “Hold on. Let me get you some paper—”
“—Forget it,” she says, jumping to her feet, taking the wayward noodles from her lap, and throwing them in the garbage. She pulls off her blazer, and I realize her blouse is sleeveless.
I’ve never actually seen this much skin on her.
I find myself staring as she starts to unbutton the blouse, hypnotized like a goddamned school boy.
This isn’t a dream, right? I’m still here, still awake, right? I cross my arms and stealthily pinch myself.
Nope. This is real. Tenley Bayliss is actually stripping in front of me.
But then she shrugs off her blouse, revealing a sedate, modest silk camisole. Well, modest for other girls. For Tenley, she looks practically naked. Her skin is flawless, and her subtle, feminine curves are perfection. I can practically see the outline of her nipples as they cut through the paper-thin fabric of her remaining top.
Not to mention that I’m pretty sure that’s the camisole from my fantasies.
My cock throbs, coming to life all over again.
She doesn’t notice me staring. She simply power-walks to the door. “Hold on. I just need to run this under the sink so it doesn’t stain.”
Her footsteps fade off in the hallway, allowing my heart rate to return to normal.
Meanwhile, I’m still hard as a fucking rock.
What the hell am I doing? So what if the woman could fulfill every naughty librarian fantasy I’ve ever had? So what if she’s packing a smoking hot body? None of that matters. She’ll never let me touch it.
She hates me.
And that, I think, might be the hottest thing of all.
9
I get home shortly after eleven PM.
Everyone else my age is probably living it up. It’s Friday night. I bet even Brooks is sitting at some trendy bar right now having a drink to kick off his weekend. That’s what normal people in their twenties do.
But me?
I trudge into my bedroom, kick off my heels, then look down at my blouse. The greasy Thai stain is fainter, but still there. Great. It’s ruined. First world problems of course, but growing up knowing poverty, I’ve always been grateful to have nice clothes and I’ve always taken meticulous care of them so they’ll last forever.
I work on the stain for a solid twenty minutes before accepting it’s a hopeless cause, and then I have a little funeral service for the blouse before tossing it into the garbage.
A moment later, I grab it back and set it to soak in my sink with some more stain remover.
I can’t give up that easily.
Like my mom says, there’s always hope. I can almost hear her cheering me on from her home in DownEast Maine four hours away from here.
I collapse in front of the couch, attempting to unwind. I need to sleep, because we arranged a meeting with Courtney Perry for Saturday morning, since it’s the only time she could get a babysitter. But if I pass out now, I know I’ll dream about legal motions until it turns into a nightmare.
Grabbing my phone, I casually browse the minefield that is social media, and I’m right—it’s full of friends out at clubs, parties, exotic vacation destinations. And the ones that aren’t living out the dwindling years of their twenties in high-style are married, really adulting, with families of their own.
Looking around my place though, I sigh. All I see is everything that’s wrong—the boxes piled up around me, the run in my brand new nylons, the dirty dishes piling up in the sink. Not to mention…
There’s such a thing as tact, and you don’t have it.
The words run through my head like a freight train. If a man has an opinion, he’s applauded. If a woman has one? She’s tactless. Still, I have no plan on changing my ways all because some pretty boy who’s never known adversity a day in his life thinks his opinion matters to me.
I swallow as a sickening realization washes through me.
Something tells me Brooks is going to be partner.
Everyone loves him.
And he’s going to be the face of this case, the part the people see. Even if I work my fingers to the bone in the background, when we win, everyone will notice him first. And I will be left behind.
Because as much as I hate to admit it, Brooks is right.
He’s a people-person.
I’m not.
It doesn’t matter how good I am at my job or how hard I work to win this case if he’s the one everyone notices.
Sighing, I navigate to BLIND LOVE. I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t checked it. I only had that one connection, with Stranger88, and I was kind of embarrassed by the fact that I’d responded to his sex fantasy with an enthusiastic, Sounds interesting, only to receive nothing but crickets in return. Apparently, I lack tact even with a sex-starved stranger.