Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
The door opens, steam billows out.
Oh fuck.
He emerges from the mist like some kind of mythical creature, and I’m useless once again. My lungs have drained. I can’t talk. Can’t think. He’s so bloody good-looking. Dangerously good-looking. My eyes drop.
Remember that word, Amelia. Dangerous.
I’m staring at his bare feet. Then his calves.
His thighs. His cut stomach. His chest. His neck.
His face.
Our eyes meet briefly before his lazy gaze falls slowly down my body, his lip lifting at the corner. “Are you okay?” he asks.
No. “Yes.” I quickly grab my towel and wrap my exposed body, and he pouts. It’s so cheeky, his dimple deepening.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, his voice low.
I shudder. For fuck’s sake. “You didn’t disturb me.”
“So you usually only last a few minutes, huh?”
I baulk at him.
“In the steam room,” he adds, rubbing his chest with his hand, through the sheen of sweat and over glistening, solid muscles.
Have mercy.
He pulls a towel off a nearby hook, and all the signs suggest my torture is about to extend.
“It was particularly hot today,” I murmur. Because I had company. My eyes nearly cross when every one of his muscles flexes and rolls as he rubs himself down. This is bloody unbearable.
“Wasn’t it?” he muses, his eyes burning into me, making me shift on the spot. What the hell is wrong with me? I feel like every sense I possess, including my sense of reason, has done a runner on me. I can’t find my tongue either. “What do you do?”
I withdraw. “Pardon?”
“What do you do?”
“For work?”
His smile is mild. Is he going to cover himself with that towel, because I’m really struggling? “Yes, for work.”
“What is this?” I ask.
“This is me asking you what you do for a living.”
“Why?”
“Should I save meaningful conversation until our first date?”
I laugh, stretching his smirk. “Very good. I’m a financial adviser.”
“So you’re gifted with numbers?”
“I guess I am.”
“Well, I’m really gifted with my hands.”
My eyes drop to those hands on a slight hitch of breath. “And what do you do with your hands?” My wondering is unstoppable. He was wearing a suit. Businessman?
“Come for dinner with me and you might find out.”
I laugh again, and it’s so fucking obvious I’m doing it because I have no idea what to say. “You want me to go for dinner with you?” I would love to go for dinner with you. “No.” I shake my head.
“Why?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Would you like to?”
I’m stumped. Totally. And I find myself looking at his hands again. I’m standing here half-naked, as is he, and he’s asking me out on a date?
“I’m not going for dinner with you.” No dating. No men. No distractions. I hate myself right now for making that promise to myself. Stick to the plan, and the plan is making partner. “But thanks for the offer,” I add, smiling.
He starts rubbing over his tight black swimming shorts. “You know where to find me when you change your mind.”
“In a steam room?”
“Or at a bar. Or on the end of a phone.” He smiles, and I am done for. Don’t tell me that every woman he’s ever flashed that smile to hasn’t passed out on the spot. I’m dizzy. My knees are knocking. My insides are furling. “You’re good with numbers,” he goes on. “So you’ll remember mine if I give it to you.”
He’s hoping. I can’t even remember my name right now.
Extending the perfect form of his torso by lifting his arms, he dries his hair with the towel. I can’t take it.
I look away and walk away, hotter now than I ever was in that sweatbox. I also pray for some restraint to keep myself from fantasising about him. I’m stronger than that. I reach for my temple and rub. Be strong, Amelia. Remember you’re in the aftermath of a breakup.
“My number is zero, seven—”
I hold up a halting hand, working hard to keep walking.
“Good talking, Amelia,” he calls.
I stop dead in my tracks, staring forward, knowing I will do myself no favours turning for another look. How does he know my name? Maybe he heard one of the girls talking to me. Or Anouska.
“Good talking.” And disintegrating.
And as I stand here, still staring forward at nothing, in a total mental meltdown, my towel loosens and drops to my feet. I peek down my body—my bikini-clad body—feeling his eyes on my arse. Shit.
Cringing to high heaven, I dip, trying not to jut my backside out too much, then try to walk away as normally as possible, feeling the heat of his stare following me.
And as soon as I’m out of the spa and back in the safety of the female changing rooms, I collapse to the wooden bench and gasp for air. “Pure class, Amelia,” I breathe, burying my head in my hands. Pure fucking class.