Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“So you are worried about your face…trying to impress someone?”
I strike while he’s distracted, going for a jab to his lower stomach, but he swipes it away easily. The odds are not in my favor.
“You aren’t using your size to your advantage,” he tells me gruffly, like he’s annoyed I’m not beating him up harder.
“I’m trying!” I groan.
“Stop circling around me. You’re wasting your energy.”
Fine. I reach out to try for a one-two punch to his chest, but it’s no use. In the process, Hudson leg-sweeps me. In a flash, I end up flat on my back, the air whooshing out of my lungs in a painful gasp.
Like the arrogant ass he is, he leans over me so his handsome, sweaty face blocks out the bright fluorescent lights. I stare at his full lips, those sharp cheekbones, those perpetually angry brows, and I feel lit up like a live wire. It’s the adrenaline.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he asks deviously.
His reaches his hand down so he can help me back to my feet.
Before he can blink, I hike my legs up and bring them around the back of his, taking him out at the knees so he crumbles to the ground beside me. We lie flat on the mat together, breathing hard. My right leg is pressed against his.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I tease right back before rolling over and purposefully grinding my elbow into his stomach as I push to stand up.
Now that was a satisfying workout.
Chapter Fifteen
Hudson
I’m a man in my thirties with a crush.
It’s embarrassing. I’m obsessed. And I don’t get obsessed with anything outside of maxing out my billable hours. Ever.
I’ve been looking into how to get rid of these inconvenient feelings, but apparently, there’s no over-the-counter pill or cream for that. Maybe I need a shaman? I’m so desperate to go back to the way I was before Scarlett Elwood walked into this office, and if that means paying a back-alley priest $200 to spritz me with “holy water” out of a Gatorade bottle, so be it.
Slightly less worrying than my developing feelings for very-young, very-off-limits Scarlett but still annoying is the fact that winter has descended on us. It snowed over the weekend. The city is currently blanketed with white fluff. So far, ten people have said the words “I just love the first snow of the season,” so now I’m playing a game with myself: if I hear it fifteen times before lunch, I’m allowed to take a shot from the For Emergencies Only tequila bottle I keep in a side cupboard in my office.
The last emergency was Lucy’s birthday. She got me so drunk I slept on the floor under my desk, but it’s been months since then, and I’ve mostly forgiven her.
I’ll have to relegate it to a single shot today though. I’m supposed to meet Scarlett in the gym later this afternoon.
At least I think that’s the plan. We’re not in fucking elementary school comparing our Lisa Frank planners in art class. Just…we met last week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, so I figure we’ll do the same this week. I mean, it would be convenient if we had a time set so I didn’t have to pace around that boxing ring for an hour waiting on her, but I refuse to look like a simpering fool. If I have to wait for her, I’ll just work later to make up for the wasted time. It’s fine.
During last week’s sessions, Scarlett tried to take me on in the ring, and I tried to mostly keep my gaze above her collarbone while dodging her surprisingly well-timed blows. For someone so small, she’s feisty. She landed a solid punch to my stomach on Friday. I had to double over and breathe deep. She immediately gasped with horror and ran over to check on me, her hand rubbing soothing circles on my back (inappropriate), her face down near mine (tempting).
“Did I really hurt you?” she asked, sounding concerned.
“Yeah.”
“Are you crying?”
“A little.”
She laughed and pushed me away playfully. God, I love making her laugh.
Fortunately for me, I have a big closing in two days for the Zion Oil and SolarCo merger. It’s scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving, and it’s given me a lot to focus on outside of Scarlett. I work straight through lunch with my team, but by 2:00 p.m., everyone’s cranky and we’re starting to make stupid mistakes. I dismiss them down to the food court, and I’m about to figure out food for myself when Lucy’s phone rings. A few minutes later, she shouts out.
“It’s your mom! Line two.”
“Why does she call you first? She has my direct line.”
“She likes me!”
I pick up the phone. “Why do you call Lucy first?”
“I like her!” my mom says as if they corroborated their story beforehand.