Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch despite myself. “So, you get me here under false pretenses, huh? We’re already off to a terrible start.”
“What’s in a name?” he says easily. “Rex. Roger. It makes no real difference to the date.”
“This isn’t a date,” I tell him quickly.
“Of course not,” he agrees, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Still, not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night.”
Ok, I’ll give him that one. I tilt my head, studying him. “So why did you even agree to this? Some random woman dressed up as Jessica Rabbit approaches you in a bar, and you think, yeah, sure, let’s do that?”
“Why wouldn’t I agree to this?” he says. His smile is quick and sharp. “What guy doesn’t want to date Jessica Rabbit? And I was in awe of your confidence.”
My blush deepens, and those gorgeous eyes lock on me, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
“It wasn’t confidence,” I say quickly. “It was a forfeit. I lost a game. This whole thing …” I gesture vaguely between us “… is the result of peer pressure and humiliation.”
“Well,” he says, lifting his glass and smirking. “Whatever it was, I’m a fan. Confidence, forfeit, whatever you want to call it. Not everyone would’ve gone through with it.”
I shrug, sipping my drink. “As long as you’re cool knowing this isn’t about the romance.”
“That suits me perfectly, actually,” he says smoothly. “I’m only in London for work, anyway. I figured I could use a break from hanging out with the same people from the office.”
“You’re American, right?” I ask, though his accent makes that obvious.
“What else can I be with a name like Rhett?” he teases.
“Let me guess. Your mother was a fan of Gone with the Wind?”
He nods. “Lifelong. Want to guess what our family house is called?”
My eyes widen with surprise. “Twelve Oaks?”
“Got it in one.” His voice is dry.
I shake my head in wonder at the thought of him growing up in a house called Twelve Oaks. Even so, I can’t imagine that he ever got teased. He must have been the best-looking kid in his school. “How are you liking London so far?”
He takes a sip of his drink and shrugs. “It’s been mostly work.”
I laugh, the tension loosening from my shoulders. “Boss working you to the bone, is he?”
“But London finally got interesting last Saturday night,” he says, kind of avoiding my question and asking his own. “You work around here?”
“I’m freelance,” I say. “A graphic designer. Which is just a fancy way of saying I sit in my pajamas at home and occasionally remember to send people logos.”
“That sounds ideal.” His eyes glint with amusement. “No one to boss you around.”
“Exactly.”
And just like that, the conversation flows. He tells me about his job which is something to do with software development and consultancy, though he makes it sound more entertaining than it probably is. I tell him about clients who don’t know what they want until they see what they don’t, and how many times I’ve had to explain that make it pop isn’t actual design feedback.
We laugh, and as the night goes on, I relax. The nerves settle into something warmer, lighter.
And I try very, very hard not to notice how his eyes linger on me when I laugh, or how his smile curves just a little differently when it’s aimed at me. I will not allow myself to be charmed by this man. There is only one man for me, and it isn’t Rhett with his amazing jawline and hot accent.
Chapter Seven
Pippa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bWcASV2sey0
-holding out for a hero-
The gin is cool against my lips, the taste sharp and the tonic just the right amount of fizzy, and for a moment, I find myself focusing on the little bubbles inside my glass instead of the man sitting opposite me. It feels safer somehow, less like I’m being observed back. Because Rhett, with his easy confidence, his chin dimple, and his eyes that look like they’ve been cut from the world’s brightest emerald, is definitely observing me.
“So,” he says, leaning an elbow on the table, his hand wrapped casually around his glass. “This famous forfeit you mentioned earlier. How did it happen? You don’t strike me as the type who launches herself into public dares lightly.”
My nose wrinkles, and I feel my cheeks start to burn at the memory. “I don’t normally. But alcohol was involved, and alcohol has a way of clouding a person’s judgment.”
He grins, his teeth white and annoyingly perfect. “Aha, the classic blame the booze defense. What kind of drinking game are we talking about? Beer pong? Flip cup? Truth or dare with shots?”
“Truth blitz,” I say, sighing.
“Truth blitz? I’ve never heard of that one,” Rhett says with a slight smile. “I thought I’d played every drinking game going in college.”
“Exactly,” I say. “It’s not a real game. Sandra, one of my so-called best friends, made it up, so naturally, she had an advantage.”