Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
The chances of them being decent guys is slim.
I stand, smoothing my pants, and glance at my watch. Only ninety-minutes to go and then I need to become the hostess with the mostest. If only there was an easy switch for that.
I hurry down the stairs and grab my suitcase and purse, lugging them back up to my room. I freshen up a little, powdering my nose and brushing my hair. At least it looks shiny and straight thanks to my new ‘perfect for brunettes’ shampoo and conditioner. Half the time, the claims made by beauty products turn out to be wild exaggerations but this one actually worked out for a change.
My sleeveless canary-yellow blouse is pretty but formal, and I want to make a serious impression to keep this week on the right track. I fold in my lips to moisten them and blow out a long breath. Who am I kidding? What I really need this week is some fun. I need to get this stupid article done and dusted and have a few days of rest and relaxation in the sun. I have all my fingers and toes crossed that there will be at least a couple of men in this group who won’t be terrible to hang out with. If Kirsty thinks it’s fine to disrupt my life at a moment's notice, I won't feel too guilty for having a mini vacation at her expense.
My traitorous brain flicks back through the images of the men like it’s referencing a hot-man Rolodex, and my even more traitorous pussy flutters with arousal. As well as fun, what I really, really need is some hot sex.
But that’s not going to happen. Not when my professional name is on the line.
I may not like my current job or the monotony of the subject matter I have to write about, but I do want to remain on the right side of journalistic integrity.
As I’m unzipping my suitcase to retrieve my clothes and hang them in the closet, an unfamiliar doorbell rings.
Whoever it is, is early and I’m still mentally unprepared.
The hallway is like an echo chamber and my feet thud against the flooring as I rush to the stairs. The bell rings again, telling me the new arrival is impatient as well as punctual. If I had to guess who it would be, I’d say one of the military guys, or maybe one of the advertising professionals.
As I reach the door, a giant wave of heat runs right through me, making sweat prickle beneath my arms and across my upper lip. Shit.
Flustered and sweaty isn’t the look de jour.
I grab the door handle, with no time to calm myself, and find six men gathered outside.
Six.
“Hey.” My eyes sweep across the real physical manifestations of the men I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing in photographs, and damn, those mugshots didn’t do any of them justice.
Even with the baseball caps and sunglasses some of them are wearing, I’m overwhelmed by how big and gorgeous they all are.
“Allie?” the one nearest me asks.
“Yes, sorry. I’m Allie. Come in.” Pulling the door wide open, I wait for each of them to pass, carrying or wheeling their luggage through before leaving it against the wall. Not only do they look good, but they also smell amazing.
Overwhelmed, I glance outside at the driveway, which has become a parking lot for a jumble of vehicles that look ridiculous next to each other. A huge pickup truck dwarfs a sleek silver sports car. There’s a Prius, a Mini, and an estate with a dog cage in the back.
As I close the door, I can already feel my palm is sweaty, so I quickly wipe it on my pants, worried they’re going to want to shake my hand.
“Wow…this place is more beautiful in reality and I didn’t think that would be possible.” The man speaking drifts towards the view in the same way I did, removing his sunglasses and hooking them into the neck of his gray shirt. His arms are covered in a lattice of tattoos which look ominous from a distance, and his body is solid and bulky, but it’s his shaved hair that I recognize the most from his pictures. Putting all the puzzle pieces together, I think he’s Carson, the tattoo artist.
“It really is, isn’t it?” Before I have a chance to follow, another man thrusts his hand out.
“I’m Russell,” he says.
His handshake is firm but not uncomfortable, as though he’s taken in my smaller frame and adapted his grip, a kindness I’m grateful for. I was right about his rough hands, too. Russell also has short, cropped hair but seems stockier and more solidly built than Carson. His piercing green eyes hold mine without wavering, intense and determined.
“Welcome,” I say, as I release his strong palm.