Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27101 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 108(@250wpm)___ 90(@300wpm)
A host with a pencil mustache appears, does a double take at us, and then leads the way past a sea of red vinyl booths.
He leads us to a secluded table in the back corner that’s tucked away behind a fake potted olive tree and a wall of framed spaghetti-eating contest photos. The hostess hands us menus and does a weird little bow before scuttling off.
We’re finally alone and Italian food is the last thing on my mind. My cock is urging me to throw Isla’s gorgeous ass up on the crisp white tablecloth and eat her for dinner.
Isla glances around, taking everything in all at once without any clue of the fantasies coursing through me. She straightens the salt and pepper shakers, not once but twice, and then smooths her napkin over her lap. The whole time, she keeps her chin tipped up, eyes scanning the restaurant with that sharp, restless energy she pulls around herself like armor.
I decide to push her buttons. Fuck it. “You can relax, you know. I’m not going to have my way with you here in this restaurant.”
She flicks me a look, mouth twitching. “I never doubted your self-control, Mr. Hot.” Her tone is dry as gin, but the way she says it? Fuck, I feel it in every muscle.
Her voice does something to me. Shit, I can’t even admit the effect it has on me out loud. Heat crawls up my neck. I can’t help it—I grin at her. “The way you say my name makes me sound like a stripper.” I smirk at her, mimicking, “For your entertainment pleasure, we have Mr. Hot.”
She lets out a short laugh and immediately covers it with her hand, which is adorable. “I can picture it.” She smirks back with a raised eyebrow.
I throw my head back and laugh. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m resourceful.” She’s smiling now, for real, and it’s so damn beautiful I have to look away before I say something insane like “marry me.”
A waitress shows up to take our drink orders. Isla orders a glass of cabernet with the precision of someone who’s done their research. I get a Shiner Bock because it’s my go-to drink.
The waitress walks away, and I notice Isla’s actually leaning forward and making direct eye contact. Her hand goes for the same chunk of garlic bread as mine and our fingers brush. It’s a split second, but it feels like a live wire. She snatches her hand back so fast she almost knocks over her water, then laughs at herself, cheeks turning a perfect shade of pink.
“Sorry,” she says. “I’m used to eating alone. Or with Oreo, who doesn’t care about table manners.”
“Fuck table manners.” I rip off a piece of bread and hand it to her. She takes the bread, and I watch her relax another notch.
We spend the next several minutes talking about small-town bullshit—how everyone knows your business, how nothing exciting ever happens here, and how Riverbend Ridge has a grapevine that moves at the speed of light.
When the waitress brings our drinks, Isla takes a long sip and lets the glass linger at her lips. I can’t stop watching her mouth, the way her lips curve around the rim, how she tilts her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat. I feel my pulse kick up. I try to focus on my beer, but all I can think about is that brief flash of her hand in mine and how badly I want more of it.
She catches me staring and sets her glass down, mouth quirking. “What?”
I shake my head. “You’re just fucking gorgeous.”
She blushes bright red before whispering, “Thank you.” She looks at me for a long time, and it feels like the whole world shrinks until it’s just the two of us.
The appetizers arrive, shattering the moment. As we eat, I watch her, memorizing everything: the way her pinky finger lifts slightly when she picks up her fork, how she dabs the corner of her mouth with her napkin after every third bite.
Sometimes she covers her mouth when she laughs, her fingers splayed like a delicate fan against her lips, like she's afraid she'll lose control if she lets it out fully. Other times she rolls her eyes, the hazel flecks catching the candlelight, especially when I describe how Atlas once got arrested for streaking at the Fourth of July parade, wearing nothing but a fireman's helmet and a strategically placed flag.
“Wait,” she says, eyes wide. “You’re telling me Atlas Hot, the golden boy, ran naked down Main Street?”
“He did.” I laugh at the memory. “He lost the bet and had to pay up.”
She snorts again, the sound bubbling up from deep in her throat. Her shoulders drop half an inch, and I know I'm winning her over.
Between bites, she starts to relax enough to ask her own questions. The candlelight catches in her dark lashes as she looks up. "So why fire inspection?" she asks, twirling her wine glass by the stem. "Why not just stick with the station like the rest of your brothers?"