Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Matt, listen, I—” But whatever I was about to say is cut off as the clowns return to the big top.
“Killaaa!”
“Killer Queen!”
Lord, do I hate that moniker.
Brandon’s over-the-top greeting is echoed by his sycophants, including the nerdy but sweet quant that recently joined Dreyland Cap from MIT. The kid must feel like he’s crossed over to the dark side, all the liquor and party favors available to him.
“Knock that off,” I complain, glaring at the ringleader clown. Meanwhile, Jared breaks into his off-key rendition of the Queen song “Killer Queen” as I stare at him icily.
“Come on, Kil—I mean, Ryan. It’s totally a compliment!”
“So says you,” I mutter. Someone must’ve told him his dimpled smile was cute. Probably when he was three or something. Someone ought to tell him that is no longer the case.
“Killer Queen” is a song about a high-class call girl, but that’s not where the association originates. It’s the dynamite and laser beams—the kick-ass themes. Their own twisted take, at least.
And though I’m no one’s pussycat, and rarely playful at work, the song does speak to me in other ways. Like to a girl pretending to be someone she’s not. I might not speak like a baroness, but I don’t speak like a girl from my hood either.
“Who’s this?” Brandon gives a jerk of his chin.
“My Nathaniel.” My tone says: Who d’you think? “Like I said, I won’t be hanging with you guys today.” Cupping Matt’s cheek, I press my thumb lightly against the corner of his mouth. “I have my favorite plus-one with me today.”
“Didn’t see you at the service,” he grates out.
“Didn’t you?” Screw you.
“Aww, shit!” Jared exclaims. “This is the guy—the one you met on vacation!”
“This is the guy,” I agree.
“Fuck!” Kyle drops into a seat. “Someone took my drink. I was coming back to it.” He looks my way as though I’m interested in his drunk-ass complaint. “Vodka, Red Bull, Fireball, and—”
“So go order another,” Brandon doesn’t so much suggest as order. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us?” This he fires my way, his tone sorely lacking suggestion.
I’ve opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of his demand and where he can shove it when I find Matt’s—I mean, Nate’s—fingers lightly squeezing my shoulder. I must’ve been too focused on these idiots to realize he’s moved closer and that his arm is now resting across the back of my chair.
“What’s up?” Jared says, dropping into the seat on Matt’s right.
“Nate doesn’t speak—”
“Buenas noches,” my imaginary boyfriend says in an accent that sounds convincingly Spanish. And convincing is better than comical.
“¿Cómo estás?” Jared returns, sounding like a bad actor in a telenovela. “Mi nombre es Jared.” Or maybe that should be a kindergartener in a Spanish class.
I almost give a whoop of joy at Jared’s butchering of the language. Even I recognize that much. Before the wedding, I asked everyone in the office if they spoke another language, in a roundabout way, as damage control after I’d uttered my stupid lie.
Being hotheaded is such a curse sometimes.
“Bien, gracias,” Matt—Nate—returns pleasantly. And without an ounce of concern.
Meanwhile, I’ve still broken out in a cold sweat. I send a silent prayer heavenward. Please let him know a few more words, Lord.
“You speak Spanish?” Jamie, another of the guys, directs Jared’s way.
“Nah,” he admits. “I just learned enough in high school to impress this Mexican chick I wanted to get with.” He turns to Matt again. “¿Hablar inglése?” Jared says next.
“Un poco,” Matt returns with a small gesture of his hand.
He sounds so convincing, especially compared to Jared. I find myself thinking about what he said—why I hadn’t chosen an Italian pretend boyfriend, given I’d spent three miserable weeks in Italy.
Italy wasn’t miserable, but I was. I’d sold myself the vacation as a summer to get over my broken heart. I had very firm plans of finding an Italian stallion to screw some sense back into me. Sadly, the only D I got while there was depression.
“You really don’t speak the same language?” Jared looks as confused as a cricket in a hubcap.
“We converse freely in the only language we need.” For show, and because I suddenly want to, I press my hand to Matt’s left cheek and my lips to his right. He makes a low, purring sound of surprise, then murmurs a string of seductive-sounding words. Words I can’t make sense of, though their effect feels like hot syrup sinking into me.
“Man, I love love.” Jamie sighs sweetly.
In the periphery of my vision, I note how Brandon sends him a death glare. “What did he say?” he demands.
Beats me, I almost answer as my brain plays catch-up. My blood seems to have drained from my brain to my lap. Oh. My. Lord. His mouth—the shapes it makes. That melodic rise and fall of his words. The man speaks Spanish, hallelujah!