Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Finn laughs as I pull the car next to Poppy’s. Turning off the headlights, I spy a candle flickering on the screened-in porch. My pulse quickens as I wonder if Layla’s out there.
“All of this is the alcohol talking,” Finn chuckles. “I kinda wax poetic when I drink whiskey.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s a fucking truth serum for you.”
“I need a serum that will magically plant me in my bed,” he groans.
“Can you walk? You’re a big motherfucker to carry in by myself.”
“I’d pay to see that,” he says, struggling to sit up. “Can I do it without puking? That’s the real question.”
Climbing out of the car, I make my way around the front and help him out of his seat. He makes it to the house okay, but stops at the front door to vomit in the hedges.
“You are one nasty motherfucker,” I laugh, opening the door as he walks in. “How much did you drink?”
“Too much.” He grips the handrail leading upstairs and wobbles his way to the landing. “Did you pay Mach?”
“Nope. You’ll need to settle that tomorrow.”
“I don’t even want to know what that looks like.” He stumbles into his room at the end of the hall and falls face-first into the blankets. He’s snoring before his dangling feet stop moving.
Turning to go, I stop in my tracks at the sight before me. Layla is standing just inches away. Her straight hair hangs loose over her narrow shoulders, her body’s curves on full display in the clingy white one-piece shorts and tee-shirt thing she has on.
“I can smell the liquor from here,” she says, waving her hand back and forth in front of her face as she peers around the corner at Finn. “He’s in one piece. I’ll call Machlan and let him know.”
A niggle of jealousy fires away. “You know Machlan?”
“Of course.” She pulls the door closed and then stands with her hands on her hips. “Crave is our favorite place. They have great hamburgers and sometimes, if Peck is in a good mood, the best steaks you’ve ever had.”
“I make a good steak. How do you like it?”
“Well done.” She walks by me, the scent of pineapples trailing behind her. She doesn’t look over her shoulder to see if I follow, and while I’m sure I seem like a lost puppy, I do, indeed follow.
“Well done isn’t even steak anymore,” I contend, a couple of steps behind her. “It’s overpriced hamburger at that point.”
“So you probably don’t agree with dipping it in ketchup either?”
I just look at her, making her laugh. She flips on the lights in the kitchen and retrieves a bottle of red wine from the fridge.
“I did a whole piece on dipping sauces on my blog,” she says, bottle in hand. “I tried a Chimichurri, an ancho-chile-almond sauce, this fruit one that had plums and cherries that was supposed to be out of this world.” She wrinkles her nose. “Turns out, I just like ketchup.”
“I just like that you’ve thought so much about it,” I chuckle.
“I’m not a normal girl. You hear men complain all the time about their girlfriend not knowing what they want for dinner. Look, I knew what I wanted for dinner at lunchtime because I’ve been thinking about it since then.”
Her face has been stripped of makeup, a set of diamond stud earrings shine from her earlobes. She looks fresh, clean, so natural. My chest tingles like I’ve just taken a shot of Jager, and I haven’t had any damn Jager all night.
She bends over and picks up a napkin off the floor. Her cleavage is on full display, her shirt scooping so low it’s obvious there’s no bra on those babies.
She lifts a glass from the counter and pours a glass half-full with wine. “Want some?”
“I definitely want some,” I croak, licking my lips.
She rolls her eyes. “Wine, Best. Do you want some wine?”
“I better not,” I say. “Have any lemonade in there?”
“I do.” She sets down the wine glass and grabs a clean one from the cabinet. “I’ll pour some and head to the porch. Why don’t you go wash Crave off yourself.”
“How about I pour the lemonade and you wash me?”
“I can’t deal with you,” she laughs and leaves the room.
I watch her go, her ass swaying to the beat of a song I can’t hear. Leaping off the stool, I head to the shower. She’s right—I gotta get something off, but it isn’t Crave.
CHAPTER 6
LAYLA
The lightning bugs flicker away on the other side of the screens that separate the porch from the outdoors. Warm, summery air whispers through the little room off the living area as the ceiling fan whirls overhead.
It’s a perfect summertime night at the lake house, the water gently brushing the shore just a few yards away.
My laptop sits untouched on the loveseat beside me, discarded after a couple of hours of my brain’s refusal to think about anything other than Branch Best. Once Poppy went to sleep—claiming this place is the most relaxing place she’s ever been, I tried to work on a couple of blog posts for next week. I got nothing except a complete description of Branch in the text box which looked a whole lot more like a sex box by the time I wrote “The End.”