Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
“And?” Nonnie uses her grandmotherly laser stare to wear me down.
But I hold strong. “And nothing.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “I apologized, and that was it.” Well, mostly it. Okay. It was a little bit of what happened.
I try to look innocent, but my cheeks are telling the real story. I’m sweating guilt.
Nonnie just keeps staring, her mouth twitching like she wants to laugh, but she’s holding out for maximum effect. “Hazel Rose Winslet. You’re a terrible liar. Did you get his number at least?”
My chopsticks freeze mid-air. “It wasn’t like that. He was just… being polite.” Sort of. If polite means holding on to my arm like he owns me while looking at me like I’m the last cupcake at a kids’ birthday party.
She shrugs, totally unimpressed by my effort. “If you say so.”
I let out this stupid nervous noise and focus on the sushi, like spicy tuna is going to save me from Nonnie’s radar.
She just grins, all smug grandmother, then sits down and pours us jasmine tea like she didn’t just psychoanalyze me for sport. “So, I guess he was super hot?”
I almost choke on my dumpling. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my grandmother, but he was smoking hot. Every detail of his hotness is burned into my retinas for life. My insides do another mortifying backflip, and my cheeks go hot again.
“Uh. Yeah. He was…” I wave my chopsticks helplessly. “Really hot.” No use trying to get one past her.
Nonnie’s already dialing up the sass. “And?”
“And… really—that’s it. Really hot and tall.” I shove another piece of tuna roll into my mouth. Chew. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t admit you could describe the exact width of his shoulders from memory. “That’s all there is to tell you.”
She makes this little pfft sound. Like she’s not buying a single syllable.
Nonnie gives me this huge, knowing grin that’s half mischief and half grandmotherly menace. “Uh huh. If you say so, Hazel Rose.”
I focus really, really hard on my tuna roll. Like, world-record level concentration. “It was no big deal.” My voice is all squeaky and desperate, which I regret instantly. “I just want to eat my sushi and pretend my thighs aren’t currently glued together by Texas humidity.”
“Girl. I feel you.” Nonnie fake shudders. “This humidity is no joke.” And in that instant, I thank the universe for stepping in and allowing Nonnie to let the subject drop. Phew, that was a close one.
CHAPTER TWO
PRESTON
The city’s early morning light drapes Worthington Hills in an apricot haze, but the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment barely let it in. The glass reflects only me, slouched at my desk, with a mug of rapidly cooling black coffee sitting off to the side while I sketch the same impossible cantilever three times in a row. This is usually my favorite time of day—alone, in my own space, with all of downtown humming faintly five stories below. Instead, I’m wrestling with a total lack of inspiration, and all because of one gorgeous woman who’s taken up residence inside my heart and mind.
I drag a palm down my face and try to focus. The new client wants open-concept, natural light, “soft industrial with farmhouse warmth.” Jude says I’m the only one who can deliver that kind of architectural schizophrenia and make it look effortless. Normally, that kind of praise would light me up. Today, my mind is preoccupied with other, less professional matters.
I could blame it on stress. The firm is six months old, and we’re still finding our way. I should be sweating every detail, every dollar. Instead, I’m fixated on the brunette with stunning doe eyes and a mouth that looked like it had been made just for me. I’ve only ever caught her in the wild three times, always in passing. The first time I saw her, she nearly body-checked me into the lobby’s art wall, then I caught glimpses of her stepping into the elevator and walking along the front sidewalk. But I’ve never been able to get close to her again. Each time I try, she slips through my fingers.
I’ve made a career out of noticing details. It’s my job to spot the flaws in a line, the weakness in a plan. So, of course, I remember the flush in her cheeks when she looked up and realized what she’d collided with. I remember the way she said, “I’m just—I mean, you’re really tall,” and then wanted to die right there on the marble floor.
I’d wanted to say something dashing and debonaire. Instead, I said, “And you’re… adorable,” which was not at all what I meant to say, and now that’s the word stuck in my head.
I lean back in the chair, letting my legs sprawl under the desk, and stare at the ceiling, remembering every goddamn detail about her.