Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I shrug. “It’s in my contract, right?”
“You want to help me?”
There’s hope in her voice, and once again, I’m reminded that I’m an asshole. I never used to be, but life sometimes has a way of hardening your heart. “It’s my job.” And I want to see you. But I’m keeping that part locked up tight.
“Okay. Well, I need to go over the seating charts. You could help with that. I was going to do it at home this evening.”
“Are you being compensated for the extra hours you’re working?” It’s bullshit that they pile so much on her.
“I am. Hilary offered to take some of my projects when she gave me the gala, but I assured her I could handle it.”
“Right. So… tonight?”
She nods. “Yeah, we could meet at my place… or a restaurant if you prefer. My roommate, my best friend, Isla, won’t be home, not until later. She has a date.”
“A date on a Tuesday night?”
She smiles. “You’re showing your age, Ollie.”
Ollie. From anyone else, I’d correct them, hell, I’ve corrected her in the past, but there is a part of me, a very small part, that likes that she’s the only one that calls me that. Warning bells are going off in my head, telling me to back away and go back to my office. However, I can’t seem to get my feet to move. I’m rooted in place.
“My place,” I answer. “No roommate,” I add, as if that’s the reason. It’s not. Once the idea jumped in my head, it’s all I can think about. I want to see her in my space. I need to see her in my space. I have a very limited amount of time with her, and I’m not sure the opportunity will ever come up again. I have to take the opening while I have it.
“Your place.”
“I’ll take care of dinner.” I sound desperate even to my own ears.
“Dinner. Your place.” She nods. “Okay.”
Reaching into my pocket, I retrieve my phone and open a new contact before handing it to her. “Add your number, and I’ll text you my address.” She takes my phone, and I notice a slight tremble in her hands. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Good, I’m not the only one affected.
“Food allergies?” I ask, unable to hold back on the physician side of me.
“No. I’m pretty easy.” Her face heats, and I swallow back my smile.
She’s not easy, not by a long shot. “Lucky for me.” I wink at her. I fucking wink. Who am I? This is the old Oliver shining through. The one I left behind four years ago this year. I wish I knew what it was about this beautiful woman that’s bringing that side of me back to the surface.
“What time?” she asks.
“Let’s say seven. Is that too late? I have some charting to finish up.”
“No, not too late. I’ll have time to organize what we need to go over and go home and change.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her not to change. She’s wearing a green sweater today, and it brings out her eyes.
“Oh, Dr. Thompson.” I turn at the sound of my name. “I’m Sally. Did Kathy tell you I need your wallet card for your state license?”
“She did. That’s why I’m here.”
“Perfect. I was getting ready to head home for the day, but come with me, and I’ll make a quick copy. Thank you for bringing it over.”
I look back at Blakely. “I’ll see you later?”
“Later.” She nods.
It takes extreme effort to walk away from her. I don’t understand this pull. I’m hoping that by spending time with her, it will get better. That this need to be in her presence will fade, and life can go back to normal. As of right now, in my mind, it’s The Blakely Show, and I’m riveted to every scene.
CHAPTER
NINE
Blakely
I check the address one last time before turning into the driveway. My palms are sweaty as I turn off the GPS on my phone and slide it into my purse. Reaching over to the passenger seat, I grab the sugar cookies I made with my little sister, Brooklyn, over the weekend. We made way too many, and they’re Christmas trees and snowmen. I figured it would be our dessert and something Christmassy to bring to his life. Gripping my messenger bag by the handles, I take a deep breath. I can do this.
As I step out of my car, the front door opens. I stop and stare at the sight before me. Dr. Thompson is in a pair of well-worn jeans and a fitted Henley. Damn. He really is hiding arm porn underneath those dress shirts and suits he wears every day. The shirt fits him like a second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination.