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)
The knock comes. Not too soft, not too loud, just… confident. Like him. I swear, my stomach does a straight-up Olympic somersault.
I open the door.
Holy. Shit.
The man who’s been living rent-free in my mind since the first moment we met is standing in the hall. His eyes move slowly over me, and I swear they get a shade darker.
“Heard you were hungry,” he rumbles, voice low and dirty. My thighs clench while my heart beats double-time.
“Uh-huh,” is all I manage to mutter.
“You look gorgeous,” he says, his voice so rough and low I feel it in places I didn’t know could tingle.
“You don’t look too bad yourself.” That’s a freaking understatement. I drink in the sight of him. He makes my brain short-circuit. I mean, wow. He’s not even trying to hide how much he wants me, blue eyes locked on every inch of me like he’s considering where to start first. That jaw, all hard lines and stubble, looks like it was made for biting. His mouth is full and perfect and curled into the world’s filthiest smirk. Dressed in jeans and a casual jacket, he looks like he’s ready to take on the world—or steal my heart. At this point, it’s a toss-up.
He grins, soft and a little dangerous. “You ready?”
I nod, way too quickly. “So ready.” I am. For dinner, for him, for anything.
We arrive at The Old Towne Steakhouse, which looks nothing like the chain places I usually frequent. It’s a converted old bank, with high ceilings and velvet booths, all low lighting and dark wood and gold accents. There’s a host in a suit, which is slightly intimidating, but when Preston gives his name, the host immediately ushers us to a corner booth, away from the Friday night crowd.
The booth is cozy, and when Preston slides in next to me, my heart rate spikes, and I decide that yes, actually, this is very much what I want.
A server appears with a wine list, but I beat her to the punch. “I’m not much of a wine person,” I admit, “but I do love whiskey sours.”
Preston’s grin widens. “Make that two,” he tells the server, and she nods and scurries off.
“So,” he says, leaning in. His arm stretches along the back of the booth, not quite touching me, but the implied possessiveness makes my skin tingle. “Tell me about yourself.”
I fiddle with the menu, stalling. “There’s not much to tell.”
“I don’t believe that for a second,” he says. “You work at the library. You hang out with your grandmother. And—” He gestures at me. “You’re the most stunning, interesting woman I’ve ever met.”
I almost snort. “You need to get out more.”
He laughs again. “I’m serious. Most people have a story. I want to know yours.”
I take a deep breath and decide to go for broke. “Okay. Here’s my entire life in sixty seconds: my parents died when I was a kid, so Nonnie raised me. I grew up in this town, went away for college, then came back because—” I swallow. “Because I didn’t want Nonnie to be alone. And, also, because I genuinely like Worthington Hills.”
He listens, and it’s not the fake, polite kind of listening. He’s really hearing me.
“I love books,” I continue, “but more than that, I like helping people fall in love with reading.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Wow. You are fucking adorable and perfect.”
I blink as my pulse stutters in my throat. “I—what?”
He leans in, so close I can make out the dark ring around the blue of his irises, the way his gaze pins me right there in my seat. Whatever he’s about to say fizzles on his tongue, interrupted by the server sliding in beside our table.
“Here you go.” She sets down our drinks with a soft clink. “You ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
Fudge. We haven’t even glanced at the menus. My brain is still playing catch-up. “We’ll need a little more time,” I manage, hoping I don’t sound as breathless as I feel.
“I’ll be back in a few,” she says, already off, weaving through tables like the clock is ticking. The air settles between us, electric and humming, menus forgotten as those blue eyes keep holding me in place.
For a second, I’m not sure what to do with the heat in his gaze. It’s not just desire. It’s something deeper. Like he’s memorizing every word.
“I guess we should figure out what we want to eat.” I grab my menu and do a quick thirty-second scan while Preston stares at me. I can barely process words, let alone entrees, so I pick the first thing I see right as the server appears.
“I’ll have the ribeye, medium, macaroni and cheese, and, um, the spinach.”
Preston’s mouth ticks up. “I’ll have the porterhouse. Medium rare with the twice-baked potatoes.” He doesn’t even look at the menu. His hand squeezes my knee under the table, sending my pulse through the roof.