Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Don’t worry, lassie,” he says, this time in a practiced brogue. “We’ll be returnin’ as soon as the sun sets.”
I open my mouth to tell him that the sun has already set, but then I close it.
He’s clearly giving Jen some bizarre Scottish flirting. Or something.
Jennifer gives him a dazzling smile, her cheeks red, her breasts blushing, her nipples sticking out hard.
My own nipples are just as hard, and they’re protruding against the stretchy velvet of my little black dress.
But Ronan’s gaze isn’t on Jennifer’s bare breasts.
His gaze is on my face. Not my hard nipples, not my long bare legs.
On my face.
And God…that makes me want him all the more.
“Blossom,” he says, his tone warm but firm, “let’s go get that pizza.”
We walk to the exit, and I retrieve my black trench coat and my phone. Ronan grabs a hunter-green shirt and pulls it over his head. It looks like it’s made of cotton or linen, and its V-neck is closed with a leather tie. It has a billowy design and long sleeves that gather at the wrists. He doesn’t tuck it into his kilt, letting it hang loose. It looks sexy but comfortable.
“Do you have some pants to change into?” I ask.
“No.”
“I mean… You really want to go in your kilt?”
This is New York City. People dress all kinds of odd ways. But still, it isn’t every day you see a big, brawny man in a kilt and knee socks walking about at night.
“Why not?” he says. “I like my kilt. This is the O’Connor tartan, and I also have two utility kilts in black and khaki. I wear them often.”
My mind hurtles back to Jennifer’s gaze of awe as she looked up Ronan’s kilt. “What exactly do you wear underneath your kilt?” I ask.
This time he grins. Not a huge grin, but it’s a grin. “Lipstick, if I’m lucky.”
Oh God…
He really is naked under there.
I have no idea how to respond to that, so I move my focus up his body. “That’s an interesting shirt.”
“It’s called a Jacobite shirt.” He pauses, eyeing me. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to be seen with me like this.”
“Are you kidding? No. Of course not. But people are going to stare at you on the street. Gawk even. And not just because you’re dressed strangely. Because you’re so…” I sigh.
“I’m what, Blossom? Say it.”
I can’t not say it now. “Because you’re so fucking hot.”
He burns an ice-blue stare into me.
“If that bothered me, I wouldn’t dress like this. Besides, mo leannan”—he piles on the brogue again—“no one’s going to be looking at me if you’re by my side.”
My cheeks warm, my legs threatening to turn to jelly. “What did you call me?”
“Mo leannan. It means”—he leans toward me, his mouth close to my ear—“my lover.”
This time my legs do give out, but Ronan steadies me, and in a moment, our bodies are touching. He’s so warm, and even with his shirt on, I can feel the cords of his muscles through all of our layers of clothes.
“Mo leannan,” he whispers into my ear. “How about we have that pizza now?”
I breathe in and let it out slowly, gathering my bearings. Then I move back a few steps. “Absolutely.” I lead him toward the stairwell, which takes us up behind the bar in the building.
“Leaving so soon?” Alfred asks as we come to the bar.
“Ronan here wants a slice of mouthwatering New York pizza.”
“Gianni’s?” Alfred suggests.
“You got it.”
“What’s Gianni’s?” Ronan asks.
“Only the best New York–style pizza in the city. It’s not far from here, only a few blocks.”
“Sounds perfect,” Ronan says. “See you, Alfred.”
“Ro,” Alfred says, smiling.
“Ro?” I ask as we leave the bar.
“Not my favorite, but Alfred’s a good guy.”
“What do you like to be called?” I ask.
“Ronan, mostly. But for you? I’ll settle for…sir.”
God…
There go my legs again.
I’m not sure I’ll make it to Gianni’s if he keeps this up.
Gianni’s is a few blocks away, and it’s after ten o’clock. The night is warm, though. I don’t really need my trench coat, but I certainly won’t be taking it off to walk down the streets of New York in my little black dress.
As I expected, Ronan gets a lot of stares as we walk by. He takes my hand and places it in the crook of his arm. Very gentlemanly.
And it feels good—my hand touching the soft fabric of his Jacobite, feeling the corded knots of his beautifully muscular arms underneath.
“Should we hail a cab?” he asks.
“If you’d rather. Or we can walk the few blocks.”
“Walking sounds perfect. It’s a gorgeous night.”
I look upward. Because of the bright lights of the big city, you can’t usually see too many stars at night, but it’s clearer than usual tonight. I see the North Star, and I can make out the Big Dipper.