Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Chase chuckles in return and climbs to standing, which positions his mostly naked body directly in front of me. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him without a shirt, but with his close proximity, I’m starting to realize I shortchanged ole Clive on the physical descriptors.
My God, his abs are defined. Long, sweeping ridges compartmentalize the sections of his abdomen, and bulging, sculpted delineation feeds my gaze right to Crotch Arena. I can see the swell of his not-average-equipment penis below the knotted waistline of his towel, but I do my best to look away.
The movement is dragged from the depths of my soul, but somehow, I manage to look back up to his eyes. Embarrassingly, they’re dancing.
Shit. I guess he noticed me looking, huh?
Chase reaches out and lifts my chin with the gentle touch of a single finger, and my breath catches jaggedly in my throat. The feeling of him touching me like this, the two of us barely clothed, is beyond overwhelming, especially since I don’t know why he’s doing it.
His voice is a whisper as his gaze meets mine, a mix of seriousness and fondness swirling in his bright-blue irises. “Do me a favor?” he asks.
I nod.
“Take care of yourself, okay? I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
One second, he’s there, and the next, he’s gone, back to the bathroom, my dumb bobbing head and gaping fish lips all that are left in his wake.
Was that an intimate moment between people who care about each other? Or the plea of an editor who put it all on the line for an author who keeps trying to bust her head open on him?
I’d like it to be the first, obviously, but the rational part of me knows better than to rule out the second.
I stand slowly, reaching down to my side to pull up the zipper on my forest-green dress and contorting myself to hook the doohickey to the eye below my armpit. I have to hop around in a circle doing a funny dance, but finally, I get it. I step over to the full-length mirror and admire my attempt at “put together.”
It’s not bad, actually. Though, I could still stand to spend a couple hours on YouTube learning how to contour.
I move back over to the bench and put on my nude heels, clasping the buckle on each of my ankles before standing up again and heading back for the mirror. Benji climbs to standing from his prone position across the room, showing off his Captain America costume.
My buddy. He always but always makes me smile.
I’m taking one final look at the length of the back of my dress—assuring it covers the bum and hoo-ha, when the bathroom door opens, and Chase steps out, his reflection robbing my attention from my own in the mirror.
My turn to face him feels like it happens in slow motion.
His normally loose hair is styled in a perfect swoop, and a crisp black suit, white shirt, and black tie cover his spectacular body.
Normally, I might be disappointed to go from seeing so much skin to none at all, but with the way he looks right now, it’s hard to be disappointed about anything.
“Wow,” we both say simultaneously, looking at each other.
“You look…” he starts then, pausing to press a light hand into the fabric at his chest.
“Really good,” I finish for him with a smile. “You look really good.”
He nods. “Yep. That’s what I was going to say.”
My smile is big and toothy, and I don’t even bother to try to temper it. It’s probably best to get it out now before it shows itself in some other insane way later tonight.
“Are you ready?” he asks, holding out an arm in gesture for me to precede him to the door.
“Let me just grab my purse.” His long-fingered hand flashes out to grab me by the wrist gently, stopping my forward motion with a shake of my head. “Tonight’s on me. Not Brooke Baker. And not Netflix.”
“Longstrand?” I ask for clarification boldly.
He shakes his head. “Me.”
Does that mean Chase Dawson and Brooke Baker are on a date? Like, an actual date?
He gestures me forward again, putting a hand to the small of my back and guiding me out the door while Benji trots dutifully beside me. As the door shuts behind us and we head down the hallway toward the elevator—and dinner and dancing—one slightly mocking thought stands out.
Is this a date? I guess we’ll know soon enough.
Monday, May 29th
Brooke
Neon lights flash. Drinks flow. People gyrate on the dance floor in the center of the massive space. And music pounds from the hanging speakers inside the club that Chase chose for the night.
I honestly can’t even remember the name of it, but that’s probably because I’ve been too busy gawking at my…date?