Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“You and I are…” He trails off, and I cock my head.
I can’t wait to hear what comes next. I can hardly believe he would start any sentence with “you and I.”
“Responsible for things. For this wedding. You’re the Maid of Honor, and I’m the Best Man.”
My brow furrows. Of all the things I thought he might say, this wasn’t one of them.
He waves an impatient hand. He has broad wrists. I don’t know why I find them sexy.
“I don’t know what they are. I haven’t done this before.”
“And you think I have?”
“Well, you’re–” He cuts off whatever it was he was going to say.
“A woman?” I prompt, trying to follow his line of thinking. “Human?”
His brows rise like he’s shocked by my second word choice.
“Someone in possession of a beating heart? Someone who actually cares about her friends?”
He relaxes. “Right. That.” He glances at the bulletin board with the photos on it, like it might hold some clue to real friendship.
“You still have my photo.”
I expect him to be dismissive, but he nods. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“You said that last time.”
His jaw clenches. “Listen–can I buy you a cup of coffee? Or dinner or something? So we can talk?”
This guy keeps shocking me. “You want to buy me coffee or dinner or something?” WTF? Is he out of his mind? “No. We aren’t friends. We’re not going to be friends. I don’t know why Brick even asked you to be his best man when you’re the guy who broke them apart in the first place.”
That sour look returns to his face. “It’s my…punishment.” He mumbles the last word.
Laughter rockets out of my mouth. “Your punishment?”
He looks dead serious, though. Like Brick is actually punishing him by making him… OMG, I think he is serious!
It’s torture for him to have to do the cheesy wedding stuff. To be a decent best man and stand up for the groom.
A slow grin spreads across my face. “Oh my God, this is hilarious!”
Irritation crowds his expression. He frowns at me.
“I’m in.” I’m delighted. If Brick wants to punish him with forced wedding festivity, I will gladly join up and heap on the punishment. Even better if part of his punishment is making nice with me. I’m going to eat this up with a spoon!
He arches a brow. “You’re in? What do you mean you’re in?”
I smile glibly. “I’m happy to punish you, Suit. In fact, it might become my new favorite pastime.”
Billy isn’t nearly as amused as I am. In fact, his expression turns downright stormy. It’s a look I could love.
“Yes, let’s start with dinner,” I say brightly. “There’s a great sushi place around the corner.”
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t protest.
I head to the back room to let Caroline know and say goodbye to Jan and Jamie, pick up my jacket and satchel, and reemerge.
Billy snatches my jacket from my hands with his signature irritation, and for a moment, I think he’s going to throw it on the floor or something, but he opens it, and holds it out for me.
I stare at my opened coat, dumbfounded. I’m twenty-three years old. I grew up in Jersey and live in Brooklyn. I’ve dated musicians and artists. Social justice warriors. Nice guys with big hearts. But I’ve never once had a guy hold my jacket for me.
The feminist in me wants to demand to know whether he thinks I’m incapable of putting on my own coat, but that would be silly.
Clearly, no man holds a coat for that reason. Just like they don’t hold doors open because we’re too weak to pull a handle. It’s a courtesy. Good manners. Chivalry.
And I don’t hate it.
Especially from a guy who looks like he’d rather suck a lemon than show deference to anyone. I rather like seeing the manners bred into him through fancy prep schools and a Yale education. Almost like something he’s compelled to do rather than wants to do. Like this wedding stuff.
So I accept the gesture, sticking my arms into the jacket and letting him lift and drop it onto my shoulders.
He inhales deeply and then holds his breath.
What the hell? He’s probably only smelled richly-perfumed women in his privileged world.
I twist to look up at him. “Do I smell bad?”
He rubs his nose and gives a quick dismissive shake of his head. “You smell like nutmeg,” he mutters. He puts a hand on my lower back and propels me toward the door.
Nutmeg?
“And honey.”
“So…not bad?” I stop in the open doorway to look up at him again. We’re close–our bodies colliding as he stretches a long arm out to hold the door open for me.
It must be some bizarre biological reaction to his size and sheer power because I’m suddenly turned on. My nipples get stiff, and heat travels south between my legs.