Read Online Hidden Gems by Carrie Alexander - Free Book Online
Authors: Carrie Alexander
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Adult, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories, Category, Women lawyers, White Star
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are you looking for?”
“My reason.”
“Reason for what?”
“Not that kind of reason.” Marissa sat up and ripped off her sleep shirt. Gross. She’d actually worn it outside. She might be a slob in the housekeeping department, but she liked to look good. Maybe she’d become too comfortable around Jamie.
No longer a problem.
She sighed. “I’ve lost my head. And damn if my libido isn’t working overtime.”
Shandi grinned. “Oh, so you meant a reason to jump Jamie’s tush?”
“That would be entirely unreasonable,” Marissa muttered from inside her closet. She’d left her robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. It wasn’t there. Or on the floor, among the tangle of strappy sandals and unmatched socks. “Did you use my robe?”
“I might have.” Shandi made an oops face beneath her halo of tumbled curls. “Someone came to the door when I was still in a towel. Must have been one of your old boyfriends, because he was surprised when I answered.”
“None of my old boyfriends would expect me to be at home on a Wednesday.” Marissa found a silk kimono and slipped that on. She wiggled out of the yoga pants. “I hope you didn’t let him in.”
“Do I look like I’m fresh off the farm?” Shandi asked. She was from Nebraska, where her single mom was a Mary Kay consultant. Shandi liked to say that foundation ran in her veins.
“No, but knowing you, you’d have thought his dimples were cute and five minutes later he’s your best bud and you’re feeding him macadamia-nut cookies from my secret stash.”
Shandi considered. “He wasn’t that type of guy. In fact, I just realized that he wasn’t your type of guy at all, even though he wore a suit.”
“I’m done with ‘my type,’” Marissa said from the bathroom. The pipes clanked inside the wall when she turned on the taps. C’mon, baby, she pleaded with the recalcitrant plumbing. She shed the robe, always the optimist. The showers at her gym were hot and hard enough to satisfy any single girl, but she couldn’t go another minute without washing away the stink of the bad trip with Paul. Maybe any lingering inclinations for her old type of guy would also go down the drain.
“One question,” Shandi said, practically following her into the tub.
“Go ahead.” Marissa stuck her head under the thin, lukewarm spray. “But if you’re going to ask me about Jamie, don’t bother because I have no idea.” No idea, that is, except for the one where he’s a Bedouin raider and I’m a captive princess, lying naked in a desert tent when he comes to me with his body all hot and hard and whooo, boy, talk about libidos in overdrive.
Shandi stuck her head past the shower curtain. “All I want to know is where you hide the cookies.”
“WHAT’RE YOU WORKING ON?” asked Skip Sisman, the metro reporter who’d never met a pastry he didn’t like. “A revival of Sound of Music?” He guffawed around a bite of something crusty and oozing. Singing nuns were high humor in Skip’s world.
Jamie closed his laptop and slid it out of pastry flake range. Early that morning, he’d e-mailed a book review to the copy desk. But after leaving Marissa on the phone with Paul, he’d been too antsy to sit at home. He’d come into work to pick up his mail and whip out a few hundred filler words on the new CD from Overdog, four teenagers from the lower East Side who were too cool to realize they were basically just another boy band. His comments were kind. He’d been there with his own band, back when he didn’t yet know that he was hopelessly uncool.
Jamie tilted back in his chair and gave Sisman the fish eye. “What are you working on? The fascinating ins and outs of the fifth day of the garbage strike?”
“Following up on the theft at Stanhope’s. There was a rumor the thief was caught trying to leave the country with the goods, but my inside source says that was bull. Nobody’s in custody.”
Sisman was always citing his inside
“My reason.”
“Reason for what?”
“Not that kind of reason.” Marissa sat up and ripped off her sleep shirt. Gross. She’d actually worn it outside. She might be a slob in the housekeeping department, but she liked to look good. Maybe she’d become too comfortable around Jamie.
No longer a problem.
She sighed. “I’ve lost my head. And damn if my libido isn’t working overtime.”
Shandi grinned. “Oh, so you meant a reason to jump Jamie’s tush?”
“That would be entirely unreasonable,” Marissa muttered from inside her closet. She’d left her robe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. It wasn’t there. Or on the floor, among the tangle of strappy sandals and unmatched socks. “Did you use my robe?”
“I might have.” Shandi made an oops face beneath her halo of tumbled curls. “Someone came to the door when I was still in a towel. Must have been one of your old boyfriends, because he was surprised when I answered.”
“None of my old boyfriends would expect me to be at home on a Wednesday.” Marissa found a silk kimono and slipped that on. She wiggled out of the yoga pants. “I hope you didn’t let him in.”
“Do I look like I’m fresh off the farm?” Shandi asked. She was from Nebraska, where her single mom was a Mary Kay consultant. Shandi liked to say that foundation ran in her veins.
“No, but knowing you, you’d have thought his dimples were cute and five minutes later he’s your best bud and you’re feeding him macadamia-nut cookies from my secret stash.”
Shandi considered. “He wasn’t that type of guy. In fact, I just realized that he wasn’t your type of guy at all, even though he wore a suit.”
“I’m done with ‘my type,’” Marissa said from the bathroom. The pipes clanked inside the wall when she turned on the taps. C’mon, baby, she pleaded with the recalcitrant plumbing. She shed the robe, always the optimist. The showers at her gym were hot and hard enough to satisfy any single girl, but she couldn’t go another minute without washing away the stink of the bad trip with Paul. Maybe any lingering inclinations for her old type of guy would also go down the drain.
“One question,” Shandi said, practically following her into the tub.
“Go ahead.” Marissa stuck her head under the thin, lukewarm spray. “But if you’re going to ask me about Jamie, don’t bother because I have no idea.” No idea, that is, except for the one where he’s a Bedouin raider and I’m a captive princess, lying naked in a desert tent when he comes to me with his body all hot and hard and whooo, boy, talk about libidos in overdrive.
Shandi stuck her head past the shower curtain. “All I want to know is where you hide the cookies.”
“WHAT’RE YOU WORKING ON?” asked Skip Sisman, the metro reporter who’d never met a pastry he didn’t like. “A revival of Sound of Music?” He guffawed around a bite of something crusty and oozing. Singing nuns were high humor in Skip’s world.
Jamie closed his laptop and slid it out of pastry flake range. Early that morning, he’d e-mailed a book review to the copy desk. But after leaving Marissa on the phone with Paul, he’d been too antsy to sit at home. He’d come into work to pick up his mail and whip out a few hundred filler words on the new CD from Overdog, four teenagers from the lower East Side who were too cool to realize they were basically just another boy band. His comments were kind. He’d been there with his own band, back when he didn’t yet know that he was hopelessly uncool.
Jamie tilted back in his chair and gave Sisman the fish eye. “What are you working on? The fascinating ins and outs of the fifth day of the garbage strike?”
“Following up on the theft at Stanhope’s. There was a rumor the thief was caught trying to leave the country with the goods, but my inside source says that was bull. Nobody’s in custody.”
Sisman was always citing his inside
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