Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“What are these?” I ask her, holding the keys up for closer inspection. They’re identical. Three of them.
Her expression falters a bit, her brow wrinkling in concern. “Sawyer’s keys. Well, his key, really. He asked me to give them to you. It’s all the same key. He said you’d need three,” she adds, as if it’s that last detail that threw her.
I want to throw back my head and laugh, but she has no idea I don’t even know where he lives, I realize. She obviously thinks I’m his girlfriend. I mean, I guess everyone does, since he announced it on Facebook. But she thinks it’s real. Like I’ve been to his place and left shampoo in his shower. Like I know when his birthday is. Not like we’re going on our first date tonight.
Sandra says goodbye to me at the elevators, waving with a friendly smile as if she’s just made a new friend, and I step into the car alone, my mind whirling.
Chloe had commented on their names, Sawyer and Finn. “Parents had a Mark Twain thing going on, huh?” she’d said. Mark Twain, which, if I’m remembering my high-school reading assignments correctly, was a pen name. A quick look on the internet via my cell phone confirms it. Mark Twains’ real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens.
The elevator opens at the lobby and I step out, phone still in my hand, and make my way to the lobby entrance. CLEMENS CORP is attached to the wall in glossy three-foot letters over the security desk, matching the giant sign attached to the top of this building, and all the pieces fall into place.
This is Sawyer’s building.
Twenty-Five
“I cannot believe I didn’t Google him this week.” I’m at my desk typing away while Chloe grins at me from across the room. I’ve showered and shaved my legs, moisturized everywhere with a sugar-lemon body lotion, and blow-dried my hair. Now I’m stewing.
“Why didn’t I Google him?” I’m incredulous. I am the queen of invasiveness. I Googled Sophie’s boyfriend before she did. I set up an internet dating profile for Chloe without her knowledge and sent her on a date. Yet I was so distracted I didn’t even think of Googling Sawyer once this week. I’m slipping. I’m twenty-two years old and I’m already losing my touch.
“On the plus side, it probably made barging into his office today easier, not knowing who he was,” Chloe says, trying not to laugh, so it turns into a snort.
“No wonder the security guard thought I was an idiot,” I grumble, dropping my chin into my hand. “They tried to direct me to customer service, Chloe.” I’m mulling over my embarrassment when an even worse thought occurs to me. “He probably has sex with supermodels,” I say, my eyes widening.
“So what? Isn’t there a saying about that? Show me a supermodel and I’ll show you a guy who’s tired of fucking her?” Chloe asks, flopping onto her bed. “Something like that?”
“Um, I think so. But how is that helpful? Wouldn’t he just move onto the next supermodel?”
She thinks for a second. “Well, nobody ever said supermodels were great in bed or anything.”
I sit up and shoot her a look that says, Nice try. “But they’re so tall,” I say, standing and moving to the mirror, eyeing myself. “He’s almost a foot taller than me.”
“Supermodels are bony.”
I chew on my lip and think. “Yeah, that’s valid.” I am pretty curvy for being so tiny. I check out my butt in the mirror. “What am I going to wear?” I ask, scanning the clock as I sit back down and pull up my Pinterest account. Typing date with billionaire into the search engine does not pull up anything useful. Humph.
“Did he say where you’re going?”
“No. He just said he’d pick me up at seven. And I left there without his phone number.”
“You could always call Finn and ask him for it,” Chloe suggests impishly while tearing open a package of Animal Crackers, immediately dunking one into a tub of Nutella.
I wrinkle my nose. “Ugh. That stuff is disgusting.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she retorts and pops another one in her mouth.
“I think I do. I’ve tasted it. And it’s nasty,” I tell her as my phone chirps. It’s a text. From Sawyer.
Dress warm. Casual. Jeans are good.
“Son of a bitch. He does have my number.”
Chloe claps her hands and grins. “This is better than movie night!” she squeals, then holds up the Nutella. “I should put this away and pop some popcorn.”
I thought you said you didn’t have my number.
Let’s see what he has to say about that.
I said you never gave it to me, not that I didn’t have it.
Aren’t you clever.
And wear the boots I sent. They’ll look good later wrapped around my neck.
I don’t respond to that.