Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
After I throw the half-empty trash bags in the dumpsters out the back, there’s absolutely no logical reason for me to round the building, but I do it anyway.
I’m not fast enough. I can’t see Whit or his date anywhere, and a voice in my head tells me I’m too late.
Too late for what, I’m not sure.
It’s not like I’d be volunteering to take Whit’s date’s place for obvious penis reasons.
This sudden protective streak came out of nowhere and is taking over me, but it doesn’t make sense to be worried about this particular guy.
He was thin and small and pretty. Whit’s a hockey player. He would be able to hold his own. So why am I standing here coatless in the freezing cold, trying to stop Whit from going home with him?
I don’t know. But Tanner is gonna kill me.
When I walk through the front doors, yep, there’s my boss scowling at me. Though, it might not be an actual scowl. The man has a serious case of resting bitch face.
My heart skids to a stop, along with my feet, when I catch sight of the brown-haired guy sitting on a barstool. Alone.
Whit … He came back?
I round the bar and try to ignore Tanner’s stare as he approaches me.
I try on an innocent expression. “Umm, I accidentally let the door to the alley close, and I had to come around the front.”
Tanner grunts and gets back to work.
I approach Whit and try to be sympathetic. “What happened?”
“Yo, can I get a Barclay Stout?” Someone squeezes between Whit and the guy next to him.
“Sorry,” I say to Whit and serve the other guy.
Then a woman asks for a glass of merlot.
The bar is insanely busy, and I fear Whit will give in and go home before I get a chance to talk to him.
But he continues to sit there, slowly sipping his cider. I feel his gaze on me as I work, or at least I think I do. Every time I turn to look at him, his attention is on the drink in front of him, his head held low.
When the crowd begins to die down and everything isn’t so busy, I finally get a chance to talk to him, but by that point, he looks exhausted.
“Rough night?”
His light brown hair flops into his eyes as he shakes his head. “Just long.”
I lean on the bar. “What happened with the guy? You looked like you were going to leave with him.”
He avoids eye contact. “Wasn’t feeling it.”
Huh? “But—”
“He wasn’t really my type. I like …” His eyes rake over me, and I hold my breath. My chest puffs out on its own accord. Then he finishes his sentence, and I deflate. “Older guys. He was only twenty-one.”
“You’re only twenty-one. Are you saying you wouldn’t date yourself?”
“Exactly.”
I grin. “So, we’re adding ‘must be older’ to the list? How much older?”
As I ask, Jon, the musician who’s playing tonight, takes the stool next to Whit. “Hey, Rainn, can I please get a water?”
I go to get his drink, but not before I hear, “Hey, you were great up there.”
I turn back to find Jon smiling at Whit, and ugh, ugh, ugh. I just saw one guy undressing Whit with his eyes, now Jon’s doing it too.
And for some stupid reason, that protective urge is still there, even though I know Jon is a good guy. Jon’s in his forties, so maybe that’s my excuse this time. Whit may like older guys, but Jon is too old.
Whit’s right. Finding someone suitable to lose his virginity to is hard work, and I’m not even doing the heavy lifting.
Again, images of Whit throwing someone against a wall and pinning them, him kissing them roughly and moving his hands all over them, fill my mind, only this time, I’m imaging Jon as the other guy.
There’s a part of me that’s super uncomfortable with that, but it’s not the act or the image.
It makes me uncomfortable because I’m not exactly put off by it.
I could try to psychoanalyze it all night—that love is love and it’s great to see people openly be themselves in this environment without fear. But that has nothing to do with me picturing what Whit would look like while hooking up with a guy in private. Why would I even think about that?
“Rainn,” Jon calls out, and as I look down, I realize I’ve overfilled his water glass, and the excess is falling through the drainage holes on the bar.
“Fuck.” I turn and hand him his very full water. “Sorry. I was distracted.”
Jon takes it and guzzles it down. “Thanks.” He angles himself in Whit’s direction, and I hold in a growl. “It was nice talking to you.”
Jon walks away, and Whit watches Jon’s ass the whole way.
I snap my fingers in front of him. “You may be into older dudes, but that one is too old for you.”