Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I slipped my arm around her, liking the way it felt when I tugged her a little closer to my side. “That is one thing I would never stop you from doing. Unless you were drunk.”
“How chivalrous of you.”
Chapter Thirteen
BLAKE
The warm morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling hotel window bright and early the next day, and it did absolutely nothing to help my pounding headache. “Why do I do this to myself?” I grumbled, rolling over on the crumpled sheets. Wine was the worst thing for me to get shitfaced on because the hangover was hell.
A muffled snore came from Vance’s alcove, followed by a groan.
A grainy memory surfaced. One of me curling my shitfaced self up on him on a park bench the night before, after he’d told me that what I’d thought had been an insult a few months ago was really nothing more than his having a slow delivery at a really crappy pick-up line and my having a quick temper.
Not only had I lain on him, but I’d also asked him not to let me fuck him, and then I’d come back to the hotel and had a very vivid, explicit dream about fucking him. And if there was one thing I’d learned over the years, when I had dreams like that, I moaned. Loudly. I’d probably moaned his name in my sleep. Kill me now. Stuff my rotting carcass into a burlap sack and hurl it off the top of this building because, oh my God. There was no way I could be around him today.
Any minute, I expected the sound of his alarm to go off, and I either needed to be out of this room or to feign sleep or illness until he’d left.
I sat up and snatched my phone from the nightstand, then went straight to my inbox and filtered through the thousands of emails to find Vance’s itinerary.
Wake at 10:15 (Only today to help with jetlag; otherwise, it’s a 9:00 wakeup call)
I nearly rolled my eyes. He’d really felt the need to type that out?
11:30 BRUNCH—Do Live Feed
1:00 Cimetière du Père Lachaise
2:00 Take metro 3 and get off at Réaumur—Sébastopol. Go to metro 4 and get off at Odéon. Go to metro 10 and get off at Maubert-Mutualité.
2:15 Pantheon
2:35 Walk to gardens.
2:45 Le Jardin du Luxembourg
3:15 Take metro 4 and get off at Château Rouge.
4:00 Montemarte—Sacré-Cœur Basilica
5:00 Take metro 12 and get off at Gare Saint-Lazare. Take metro 3 and get off at Palais Garnier.
5:25 Palais Garneir
And it went on and on like that, which meant, lucky me. I could avoid him at all costs today. His organization came in for the win.
A text ribbon cut across Vance’s detailed itinerary.
Lucy. You got some ‘splainin to do…
Why in the hell was Margot texting me at four am New York time and quoting Ricky Ricardo?
I’m afraid to ask… Why are you awake?
The Rent-a-Poo man got lost. Don’t worry. He still spread the shit everywhere. It’s pretty majestic. But… that’s not why I’m texting you.
There are about fifty viral videos of you hurling an empty wine bottle at rats while going on some rant about them being bloodthirsty and wanting to eat Vance.
Music videos…
Adrenaline boner is trending on Twitter
I went to the internet browser and typed in “adrenaline bon”—I didn’t even have to finish keying in the phrase. Evidently, those two words made every stupid write-up, live feed, and video about as searchable as Two Girls One Cup—and if you have no clue what that is, may I suggest you do not Google that.
You are now the infamous Adrenaline Boner Girl.
Just what I’ve always wanted out of my life. My mother will be thrilled.
My mother would probably disown me and take me out of her will—if she hadn’t already done that when I’d sent a Fuck you, Kate to the family group chat last Wednesday.
Also, if you tell me you are now his fluffer…
I am not his fluffer. I had no idea he was planning to do that while I was there.
Sure…
“Do you need the bathroom?” Vance’s deep voice came from the alcove.
So much for escaping before he woke up. I guess I could—holy fuckballs. My hormones went berserk when he stepped around the corner in nothing but a pair of bright-green boxer shorts—tanned skin, huge pecs, and carved abs with a dusting of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waist of his shorts. I fought to keep my jaw from falling open. It wasn’t like I didn’t know the man was in good shape; that much had been obvious through his work clothes, plus I’d seen the gym keycard on Mr. Muscle’s office keys. But by the looks of it, the man lived there.
I took a mental snapshot of him bare-chested with messy bed hair because that sight was absolutely—in the words of Margot—clit-flicker material.