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)
“Just don’t expect me to cough up for them. I don’t care if you did pick ’em up cheap on Canal Street.”
“They were a gift,” I find myself answering. As though I need to defend myself.
“Whatever.”
I feel oddly bereft as she turns away again. Bereft and bewildered and wondering if I should put my free hand over my watch—it’s worth more than my cuff links—but she’s dressed too expensively to be a thief or scammer. And too tastefully to be touting for business in a dive bar, if you know what I mean.
“Come on, I don’t have all night!” She tugs again, harder this time.
I catch the bartender watching our exchange. He looks more entertained than worried for my safety. I give a rueful shrug as though this sort of shit happens to me all the time.
“Listen, love,” I say, ducking my head and keeping my voice low and soft. Kind, I suppose, though she doesn’t look like she’s escaped from the funny farm. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.” Think my arse, but it costs nothing to be polite.
“Is that an Irish accent?” Her lip curls in distaste, and it would seem discretion is not in her wheelhouse, given the lack of modulation in her tone. But at least she lets go of my wrist. Like it disgusts her.
“What of it?” My response wavers with amusement. I’d love to know why we’re having this conversation and why this tiny, angry woman is trying to kidnap me from a pub. And so much for Fin’s claim as to the knicker-dropping quality of my accent.
To give Fin his due, I’ve generally found women in the US to be more receptive when I open my mouth. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard “Oh, you’re Irish? That’s so cool! I have a little Irish in me too.” And as the old joke goes, they’re often keen to have a little more in them before the end of the night.
“You’re supposed to be Spanish,” the tiny bantam accuses, angrily tapping her beaded clutch against her thigh. “Why the hell put it in your bio if you’re not?”
Well now, that’s a coincidence, because I am Spanish. And Irish. Or a bit of a mutt, given I have one parent of each. But there’s no need to say any of this. Not when she’s obviously confused me for someone she’s swiped right on. I’m not one for the dating apps, myself.
“Like I said, you’ve confused me—”
“Don’t think you can back out now. Or screw any more money out of me.”
“Money?” My brows jump almost to my hairline. There isn’t usually an exchange of funds on a dating app. Unless it’s some kind of fetish one, maybe? She is a tiny, bossy thing, and though that’s kind of hot, I’ve no intention of spending the night having spiked heels applied to my ball sack. Even if she has paid for the privilege.
“I already paid for the suit. And your cab fare.” She pierces me with the kind of look that might make a lesser man—or a less amused one—wither. “I knew I should’ve gone the professional route.”
What the fuck? I become conscious of the bartender’s straining ears as he sets my beer and whiskey chaser on the bar. So I take her wrist this time and move us a few steps away, ignoring how my hand looks giant sized on her.
“You mean, like, an escort?” I ask quietly.
“No, like a plumber,” she snipes, still with the volume as she snatches her arm back. Though I will note the tiny contradiction in the pink flush across her chest.
I rub my hand across my mouth, mainly to hide my amusement. It’s none of my business what she gets up to. But also, no fucking way! Why the hell would a woman as gorgeous as her need to hire a man for . . . whatever she’s hired him for.
Even if it is a testicle stomping.
“You think that’s funny?” she demands, placing her hand to the curve of her jutted hip, full of piss and vinegar and don’t fuck with me attitude. “Of course you think it’s funny. Because you don’t live in the real world, bless your heart.” She points an accusing finger over her tiny clutch. “You cuddle housewives for a living and pass it off as therapy!”
“I . . .” I didn’t even know that was a thing.
“I should’ve listened to my gut, not Ava. ‘It’ll be cheaper,’” she adds in a breathy whine, presumably impersonating whoever Ava is. “‘Carl says he’ll give you a discount on the Cuddle Collective hourly rate. He’s a decent guy.’” One dark, elegant brow lifts, full of derision. “But what Ava failed to mention is that Carl is unreliable, that he isn’t really Spanish, that he lives in fucking Bushwick, and that he doesn’t even own a suit!”