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)
“This is my suit.” Out of all the charges laid against me, I’m not sure why this is the one I choose to answer.
“Then why did I Venmo you money while you were standing in Abe’s Formal Wear? You know what? I don’t care. Carl from the Cuddle Collective might be cheaper, but if I’d hired an escort, at least I might get fucked at the end of the night, instead of just fucked over!”
“True story.”
“Excuse me?” comes her combative retort.
“Always hire the right man for the job. That’s my motto.” I temper my amusement, entertained beyond belief. I can’t remember a conversation I’ve found quite so . . . engaging. Or a woman I’ve found quite so fierce. Especially for one so small. After the day I’ve had, I’ll take enjoyment where I can find it.
“Really?” she snipes.
“I can see the benefits, especially for a woman. Discretion springs to mind. Safety. Pleasure.” And apparently, I have a motto now. “As for Carl . . .” My words trail off as I give my head a sorry shake. I am kinda sorry I’m not Carl right now.
Her eyes move to the bar behind, maybe noticing my drinks, her words turning hesitant. “You’re really not Carl?”
“And this isn’t a suit from Abe’s Formal Wear.”
Consternation knits her brow before her gaze moves over my tux. When her eyes eventually lift, I see the wind has been knocked from her blustery sails.
“My name’s Matt.”
“Shit,” she says, bringing a hand to her forehead. Her eyes moisten, and she goes from angry to upset in a couple of blinks. “This cannot be happening. Not today.”
“I’m sure Carl will be along,” I offer, because here’s the thing: I can’t deal with tearful women. I don’t mean that in the emotionally repressive, übermasculine bullshit way. Crying women just happen to be my kryptonite—being around them turns me inside out.
If a shrink ever got their hands on me, I’m sure they’d find the root cause is my three sisters and a horde of female cousins. That lot seemed to work out very early on that if they teared up in front of me, I’d give them anything they wanted. My Spider-Man figures to marry their Barbies, a live model to practice their makeup skills on, the last gingersnap in the jar, as well as the lifelong blame for smashing the TV screen with a hurley.
“Carl isn’t coming,” she says as her bottom lip sets to wobbling. “He’s almost an hour late already. I can’t believe I’ve been scammed by a jerk who cuddles housewives for a living!”
“I wonder if they’ve any vacancies.”
“This is the worst,” she says, appearing not to hear me. “All because I didn’t want to hire a professional.” Her watery eyes rise to mine. “It felt like a step too far. Too skeevy, maybe?”
“Right.” I give a solemn nod and try to ignore the hollow sensation in my chest. No way anyone as lovely looking as her should need to hire a bloke for . . . whatever she was hiring him for. Not that I’m offering. As pretty as she is, all sad and interesting, and as hot and fiery as she was a few minutes ago, she might still be a few Cheerios short of a full fuckin’ bowl!
“Oh, my God, what a mess. What an absolute disaster.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that,” I find myself offering as a tear slides down her cheek.
Ah, now. Don’t feckin’ cry!
“It’s worse. Worse than you could ever imagine,” she answers pitifully.
“There now.” I put my hands to her shoulders and maneuver us to a nearby table. “There’s nothing in the world that can’t be mended,” I add, sounding like my granny as I press her down into a chair.
“How about trust? Or a person’s soul?”
Fuck me, that was a bit dramatic. “Here.” I quickly swipe up my whiskey from the bar and push the glass into her hands. “Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”
She puts the glass to her lips, and—news flash—it does not make her feel better. It doesn’t make me feel better either as she begins to cough and splutter, tears rolling freely down her face now.
“Oh, my God. That is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.” She stares at the glass in her hand with something like horror. “What the hell is it?”
“Irish whiskey.” Who on this earth has never had a drop of the good stuff?
“Tastes like ass.”
“It does not taste like ass. And I would know. I’ve tasted a lot of—”
“Ass?”
“Whiskey,” I retort with a frown. “I’ve tasted enough whiskey to know what you have there is premium.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” I’m not normally so easily offended on behalf of my people. Half of my people. Whatever. I move to the bar and shove a fifty down in exchange for the shot and my pint before turning back to a pitiful sight.