Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 113130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
I push off from the wall, turning the temperature all the way to the other side and let the ice-cold water beat down on me. Enough for my cock to go to half-mast before stepping out and grabbing the last towel from the bottom of the counter, wrapping it around my waist as I hear the knock at the door.
I slip my boxers back on and then finally put on the pants I wore last night, but not doing the button. I run the towel over my hair, taking some of the wetness from my hair before I open the door at the same time I hear Ariella. “I don’t know what you said to them but…” I look from the bathroom to her sitting on the couch with two trays on the table. One of the silver domes off and her hand holding up a French fry. “Look at what got delivered.”
“I was like, you better get me fries or else.” I chuckle as I walk toward the couch.
She grabs the little jar of ketchup, opening it as she picks up another dome and sees my poached eggs. “Eww,” she gasps, “these are for you, since you’re in training.” She holds up her hands, doing the air quotes again for training.
“I eat healthy.”
“I can see that.” She switches the plates around before uncovering her own and smiling at me. “See”—she picks up the sandwich—“divine.” She takes a bite, chews as she makes herself a cup of coffee, and I sit next to her.
“We should probably discuss last night.” I start the conversation even though I have no idea what more to say.
“Oh God,” she says, taking another bite, “the dreaded morning-after conversation.”
I make my own cup of coffee before looking at her. “It’s not a dreaded morning-after conversation.”
“Really?” She grabs a French fry and dips it in ketchup. “What are we going to call it?”
“Last night,” I start talking and get little bits of flashbacks of my mouth on hers as I carried her into the room, closing the door and pinning her against it, “was—”
“Gosh, can we just fast-forward, and you say what you want to say?”
I look down at the poached eggs, trying to find the words to not sound like an asshole and at the same time not wanting her to hate me. “I’m really not looking for a relationship.” She takes a bite of her sandwich and I see she’s avoiding looking at me. “As much fun as last night was”—she’s about to say something, so I hold up my hand to stop her—“and it was a lot of fucking fun. Best fun I’ve ever had.”
“Aww.” She tilts her head to the side. “You’re lying, but that’s sweet of you.”
“I am not lying,” I assure her, “but it’s just, I…”
“Listen,” she starts, taking a sip of her coffee and reaching out to put her hand on my knee, “I live in New York, and you live not in New York.” I nod at her. “And, well, last night was a lot of fun and perhaps we went a little further than we should have. But it was one night and…” She takes her hand off of me. “We’re two grown adults, who enjoyed each other’s company.” I nod at her. “And, if it’s not too much to ask, I would really, really like to keep it between us.”
I don’t know why this bothers me, her telling me she wants to keep it a secret, especially since that was what I was going to ask her. This conversation is literally going the way I wanted it to go, yet it pisses me off at the same time. She’s not even fighting it. “Deal,” I agree, the burning in the pit of my stomach seeping through me and up to my chest. “Our secret.” I hold out my hand.
“Oh, we’re shaking on this.” She wipes her hands on her robe, before holding out her hand. Then taking it back before I can shake it. “It would be better if we did a pinky promise.” She holds out her folded hand with her pinky showing. “Our secret.” Her eyes stare into mine as I try not to laugh out loud and fold my pinky with hers.
“Our secret,” I repeat the words, our pinkies still intertwined and moving up and down like a handshake. “Between us.” She nods her head and I can see a flicker in her eye, but before I can ask her about it, she drops my hand and turns back to her sandwich. I grab one of the black, rolled linen napkins that holds a set of cutlery, trying not to wonder what would happen if we lived in each other’s city, instead of across the country.
six
Ariella
One month later
The phone rings, and when I look over at it, I see that it’s Lexi. “Morning,” I say right before I grab the cup of coffee that just finished brewing. “Why are you up so early?” I ask her, knowing that she’s two hours behind me and it’s only 8:00 a.m. for me.