Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
SAVVY
“It doesn’t matter what I want. Only what I plan to take.”
What are: infuriatingly vague and suggestive statements made by Oliver Rhett that lead nowhere?
My stomach is a fluttery mess by the time we enter the restaurant bar in our hotel lobby, but for the first time today, that has nothing to do with nerves about tonight’s assignment. Oliver rattles me. One minute I think he hates me, and the next I think he wants to strip me bare and make me moan.
I suppose it could be both.
“So you just want me to go to that restaurant across the street, sit at the bar, and make eye contact with the silver fox with the jacket?” If I sound skeptical, it’s because I am.
“That’s all—this time.”
I fold my arms. “This time? And what happens next time?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t be able to act natural.”
I glance out the lobby windows and try to get a good look at the man I’m here to “make eye contact” with. All I can tell from here is that he’s wearing a suit and has more silver than black in his hair. “Who is he, anyway?”
“Just another rich asshole.”
I shoot Oliver a look.
He sighs. “Listen, the less you know, the better.” My stomach knots, and he must see the distress on my face because he takes my chin in his hand and leans forward. “I will not let anything happen to you. You have my word.”
I take a breath and glance toward the exit. Oliver saved my ass and Nathan’s, and he’s asking almost nothing of me in return. I’ve never been a coward, and I’m not going to start now.
I roll back my shoulders and strut my way across the street and into the restaurant. I ask the bartender for a martini and take the stool three down from the silver fox. When I glance his way, he’s already looking at me. I don’t have to work to make eye contact. He does the work for me. I hold it for a beat, give a subtle half-smile, then look down at my hands as I wait for the martini.
He says something to the bartender, who gives a low laugh in response before glancing my way, leaving no room for misinterpretation. They’re talking about me.
Pigs.
The bartender delivers my drink with a napkin. “The gentleman at the end of the bar has asked for the privilege of buying this for you.”
What the actual fuck? Because of ten seconds of eye contact? Does he buy drinks for every young woman who happens to sit near him at the bar? Or did Oliver just know his type that well?
Time to play the game, though—that’s why I’m here. I flash the gentleman a small, grateful smile and sip my drink. His glance turns my way only a few times, and when it does, it’s not fleeting. This guy watches me sip vodka like it’s a performance and he’s paid the price of admission. And maybe I should be freaked, but there’s something about him. He’s . . . nonthreatening.
I’m careful not to let my gaze stray to the windows, even if I’m dying to know if Oliver is watching from his spot across the street.
The guy finishes his bourbon before my martini is gone. He stands, shrugs his jacket on, and slides a bill across the bar to the bartender. Just when I think he’s going to leave without looking my way again, he winks at me then walks out the door.
Is that it? Am I done? Did I screw this up?
My phone buzzes in my handbag, and I reach for it.
Oliver: Well done.
I frown at my phone.
Savvy: How do you know? We didn’t sit together or even talk.
Oliver: Exactly. But he’ll remember you.
Savvy: I still feel like you’re pimping me out.
Oliver: Stay and finish your drink. I’ll go get your stuff and check out of the room. I’ll text on my way to get the car so you can pay your bill and meet me out front.
I roll my eyes. Way to avoid my objection. But what’s the point of bringing it up now?
Savvy: No bill. Silver Fox picked up the tab.
Oliver: Must you keep calling him that?
Savvy: Does it bother you that I find the guy you’re pimping me out to objectively good-looking?
Oliver: Yes.
Savvy: And why’s that?
Oliver: Whatever. Just don’t ever let him hear you say that.
I frown. If we’re trying to get this guy interested in me, wouldn’t a compliment be a good thing? Or maybe this is a timeline thing, like why Oliver didn’t want me biting my lip in front of him.
“I’m not getting on my knees for—”
“Not for anyone but me. Not as long as I have anything to say about it.”
Oliver may be an asshole half the time, but there’s no denying those words will play on repeat in my head for the next week. Maybe the next month.