Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
At least Kiera had done my makeup.
I’d initially thought she’d gone way overboard with the blush high on my already round cheekbones, and she’d made the liner on my eyes too dark, causing my shadowy-brown eyes to look almost black. Then she’d swiped red lipstick over my lips—my most hated feature, even though Kiera told me she paid a hefty amount to get fillers to look half as natural and full as mine.
The top I was wearing was Kiera’s. Though we had the same bust size, we did not have the same waist by any stretch of the imagination. The fabric was silky and had a lot of give, but it still clung to my torso in a way that made me slightly self-conscious. My stomach was not washboard flat, and my hips were wide. I had the traditional hourglass shape. I’d never really tried to lose the extra pounds I carried because it was my body’s natural shape, and eating was part of my job.
It wasn’t that I thought I was some wallflower; I understood I had all the features that made me conventionally attractive. I had curves that a certain kind of man enjoyed. But I never felt comfortable with them, never felt like they matched up with who I was. I was not the sex kitten type person that my full lips, hourglass figure and dark gaze communicated.
Maybe, deep down I wanted to be. I’d never felt comfortable with sexuality or femininity. I’d shoved it down whenever my mother tried to address it, further bolstering the distance between us.
Hence why I wasn’t used to wearing a whole lot of makeup, and I didn’t recognize myself when Kiera had finished with me.
I kind of looked … sultry, I guessed? Who could tell?
Kane ‘The Devil’ Rhodes did in fact seem to be making his way over to us, though. And it made sense that he was doing that because of my petite, curvy and knockout bestie with the greatest tits you could find in this room.
“He’s coming over here,” Kiera repeated. “Oh my god, I wish I was filming this.”
Of course, she did. Kiera had a social media presence that had taken off. She’d recently been able to quit her job in cosmetic sales to pursue it full time. That was where the tickets to this swanky party had come from. Perks of the job.
I watched the crowd part for this man, people staring as he walked by. Some were even gaping. A couple of people not so discreetly filmed him.
My attraction to the man waned some. Anyone who garnered attention like that would likely have an ego the size of Texas.
Though my attraction waned, it didn’t fizzle out completely. No, my heartbeat thundered by the time he stood in front of us.
“Hi.”
His voice was like honey. Or whisky. Something smooth and impossibly rich and manly at the same time. But with an edge. A rasp.
My skin prickled with the single syllable greeting.
That was not directed at my best friend.
But me.
Or maybe the person behind me.
There was no way for me to check without it being obvious.
I was pretty sure it was me, though, because he was standing close to me. Like really close. Much closer than was polite.
I could smell him.
He smelled of a woodsy aftershave and something else. Something that wasn’t manufactured and didn’t come out of a bottle. That was all him.
I could bathe in that smell.
Pheromones, I reminded myself. Pheromones. It was a natural phenomenon, designed by nature. On a cellular level, we must’ve been somewhat compatible. That was it. It didn’t mean anything profound. No fireworks nor love at first sight that Hollywood tried to peddle.
No, we were animals at our cores, a chemical reaction to satisfy an ancient urge to further the species.
“Hi,” I replied reflexively, trying to get my bearings.
I wasn’t someone who was shaken easily. Working in some of the most chaotic and high-profile kitchens in the country will do that to you. If you were going to crack under pressure, you did it about the first year of working in an actual restaurant environment. Usually the first month. I had seen too many mental breakdowns to count and been on the edge of a few myself. There was a moment when you were sweating, when Chef was screaming at you, when your fingertips burned because you hadn’t yet scorched the feeling out of them, when you couldn’t remember the last time you slept and you seriously thought your heart was going to explode. That was the moment when you walked out of the kitchen forever. For your own sanity.
Or you held on to your shit by the tips of your seared fingers, embraced the part of you that thrived off this chaos and pulled yourself together. I was proud to say I got my shit together years ago and hadn’t come close to losing it since.