Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I growl and it turns into a sigh of longing and lust. The bartender returns with a distraction and our drinks—a fresh whiskey for me as well as her drink. I peel off a few more crisp bills, and tell him to keep the change.
“Thanks, sir,” he says.
I wish he wouldn’t call me that in front of her, but c’est la vie.
“You’re welcome,” I say, then add, “sir.”
I can be a dick too.
He heads off to the other end of the bar, and Lola tilts her head, her eyes locked on me. “So, you really were distracted by me during your talk?”
The question comes out innocently. Because I pulled off the speech. I didn’t reveal to the audience that I wanted to stride off the stage, march over to her, and ask her to spend the night with me. “You tell me,” I ask, picking up my glass of whiskey.
“Honestly, you seemed…in charge, and on top of everything. Like you knew exactly what you were doing.” Her words come out full of innuendo. Everything that falls from those lips has a double meaning.
I lean a little closer, catching a whiff of her heady scent. “I’m glad no one could tell how hard it was for me. Didn’t want to let on to a single soul that I just couldn’t stop thinking of this woman in the front row.”
She sits higher, almost preening, and lifts her champagne flute. “We should toast then. To distractions.”
I clink my tumbler against hers. “To very worthy distractions and the opportunities they bring.”
Then she takes a sip and I watch as the glass hits her lips. I’m jealous of that glass, but I try to console myself. I’ll be kissing that lipstick off her by the end of the night.
I lift my whiskey, take another drink, then set it down. “So, Lola, I took the liberty of making a dinner reservation.”
“Oh? You did?”
Yeah, that definitely surprised her. Maybe she’s not used to a man who knows how to plan a date.
“I did. I want to get to know you better. There’s this great place on the beach called Catalina’s. It’s fusion cuisine, Miami meets Cuban, with vegetarian, meat, whatever works for you. Can I take you to dinner?”
Her smile is a little like the sunrise. It dawns slow and easy, then spreads all at once. “I love that you ask. But you should know—the answer has been yes all day long.”
I want to make sure the answer will be yes all night long too.
When we leave, I set a hand on her back, marking her as mine, since she seems to like that.
And I want to grab this chance to give her everything she wants because tomorrow, I’ll be an ocean away.
5
THE RIGHT THING
Layla
Is this what a good date feels like? This fizzy feeling spreading through every molecule of my body?
I’ve felt this way for the entire meal, here in the warm night air, surrounded by the scent of the ocean on the patio of this open-air café on South Beach. Throughout the meal we’ve chatted about what we love about Miami (almost everything), what I love about New York (my friends and the way the city challenges me every day), and what Nick loves about London (the speed and the energy, but never ever the weather, and he still misses California, where he lived for a few years after he grew up in New York).
Now, as the meal winds down, I take a final bite of the plantains and peppers dish. The flavors snap, crackle, and pop in my mouth, but then finish like a sugary kiss.
After I chew, I set down my fork. “It’s a little sweet and a little spicy,” I declare.
Nick lifts a brow playfully. “Are you talking about the dish or the night?”
This man is such a dirty flirt. I bob a shoulder and give it right back to him. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”
A rumble comes from his throat, sexy and carnal, then he says, “I’d definitely like to find out.”
Tingles shimmy down my spine. He’s so forward, so different from the guys I’ve dated. There is no “just so you know” to Nick. He puts his cards on the table. Like the fact that he’s leaving tomorrow morning, which he told me after we ordered. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving then too,” I’d said.
Translation: I don’t want strings either.
Except…I suppose he hasn’t technically put any sex cards on the table yet. He hasn’t exactly said if he wants this date to end in his suite or mine. Or the third, and horrid option—here at the restaurant.
I don’t want to presume. I don’t want to ask either. Maybe because I don’t want to be disappointed if he’s not angling for a one-night stand, like I am. This is a role reversal for me, to be the one wanting it.