Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Something tells me this woman wouldn’t be impressed if she looked at my bank account. She seems like she couldn’t care less if I was a billionaire, which I am, or if I was dead broke, which I’m definitely not. To her, my worth as a person has nothing to do with my net worth. That’s a big change from the people I’m normally surrounded by.
“I do okay,” I admit.
“So, you have enough money to have any experience you’d like, in a city where you can do pretty much anything, and all you do is work? Do I have that right?”
I swallow hard. “It’s not all bad. I did let loose earlier.”
She leans in with a scandalous grin. “Do tell.”
“I had a cupcake. Well, a bite of a cupcake.”
Her face falls like I just told her I kick puppies. “One bite of a cupcake? Who doesn’t finish a cupcake?”
I just stare at her.
“What, was it someone’s birthday or something?”
“Yeah.”
She looks around with her arms up. “Where are the decorations?”
“We don’t do that around here.”
“Right,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Because balloons wouldn’t be businessey enough. Whose birthday was it anyway? Did you reward them by letting them leave at eight o’clock?”
I tense. Just for a second.
But she notices.
“Wait… it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
I go still.
“Oh my god. It’s your birthday. And you’re still working! You’ve been here all day. Alone. Working. On your birthday?”
“I like working,” I mutter.
“On your birthday?!”
I let out a long sigh. “It’s just a day.”
Shit. I shouldn’t have said that. Her hazel eyes go all wide and crazy.
“It’s not just a day. It’s your birthday. The day Logan Strickland burst into this world and graced the universe with his presence. It’s the first day you took a breath. The first day your mother smiled at you. The first day some lucky doctor smacked your cute little tush. If that’s not worth celebrating, then what the hell is?”
I can’t help but smile as I watch this girl. We couldn’t possibly think any differently, but for some reason, I’m inexplicably drawn to her. I can’t look away.
“We’re going out,” she says, reaching forward and tapping the elevator button continuously with her finger. “We’re celebrating.”
“We are?” I say, my smile turning into a grin.
“It’s your birthday,” she says. “We’re in New York. We’re friends. We’re going out.”
“We’re friends?”
She looks at me and gives me a firm nod. “I’ve decided it. Sorry, but you don’t get a say.”
If I had a say, we’d be more than friends. I do have a lot to say on the matter, but for now, I’ll take what I can get.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“I know,” she says, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “I want to.”
And just like that, she’s in charge.
The elevator doors open and she steps in like she owns the damn building, her suitcase rolling behind her with a cheerful little squeak.
She’s so confident. So sure of herself. There’s no hesitation even though she just arrived in this city. It’s like dragging strange men out into the night is just another thing she does between breaking and entering and feline medication schedules.
I wonder if she knows she just tilted my life on its axis. That she’s shaken me to my core.
“Coming, Mr. Birthday Boy?” she asks as she holds the door open.
“I like that better than your last nickname for me.”
“You have three seconds to join me or we’re back to Mr. Cranky Pants.”
I grin as I step in.
Like it was even a choice.
I’d follow this amazing woman anywhere. I’d do whatever she asked.
She’s got her hooks in me and there’s no going back now.
The doors close and she looks up at me with a smile so stunning, I forget how to breathe. “Next stop, the best night of your life.”
I have no doubt about that.
It already is.
CHAPTER FIVE
Logan
Ioffered to take her anywhere.
Pearl & Vine in Tribeca, The Tonic Club in Midtown, Velvet Jack’s in the Upper East Side. She could have been dining with celebrities and eating caviar flown in from Madagascar, but this is what she chose.
A small greasy pizza shop in Hell’s Kitchen called Vito’s on 47th. There are no tables, only overturned milk crates scattered on the sidewalk to sit on—if you’re lucky enough to get one.
We’re stuck in a line that curls around the block, but at least it’s moving.
“I can’t believe you’ve never eaten here,” she says as she tucks a strand of silky brown hair behind her ear. I notice she does that every few minutes and it drives me crazy. I can’t wait for the day I get to reach over and do that for her whenever I please. “If I lived in New York, I’d hit up every famous pizza shop there is.”
“I normally order from the place down the street,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask me any more questions about it.