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)
“Ah, darlin’. Don’t cry.” I put my glass on the table as my stomach sinks.
“I’m not crying. It’s the whiskey.”
“That was fast. You’ve usually got to drink at least half a bottle before the tears start.”
“I’m supposed to be at a wedding.” Her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.
Pushing aside the coincidence, I down a good portion of my beer. She’s not the only one in need of a drink, and that news doesn’t exactly help. But because I’m not a complete dick, I crouch down in front of her and take her hands in mine. “Supposed to be?”
“My ex is getting married,” she whispers. “Will be married by now.”
“Ah.”
“I’m not crying,” she says, oblivious to the obvious as her shoulders begin to tremble again. “Not over him. I never cry. Unless—oh, my God. Maybe this is what happens when you have ten years of tears stored inside you. Why is this happening now? I’d rather store them as cankles than have this happen now!”
“Come on. There now.” Jesus God, I sound like my sister soothing her little one. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she retorts, shaking her head, her words all blubbery and wet. “Months of planning, for it to come to this.”
Whoever said crying girls are attractive needs their head examined.
“Hush now,” I say a little harsher, changing tack yet still borrowing my sister’s parental tone. The one she uses when little Clodagh is overwrought. “No good can come from getting yourself in this state.”
“What the fuck would you know?” she says, snatching away her hands.
“What do I know?” Not much, apparently. Because as my brain tries to formulate an answer, my mouth takes the opportunity to become an independent contractor. “Only that I’m exactly the kind of man to get you out of this.”
Chapter 3
Matt
Maybe there is something about crying girls after all.
“Wait.” She tilts her head, her pretty eyes so blue and so glossy. “What?”
“What?” Hang on—that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. I mentally play back my words, but before I can clarify—and by clarify, I mean backtrack the fuck away from this at a million miles an hour—her eyes widen and her expression morphs with understanding.
“You mean you’re, like, a professional?”
Or misunderstanding, I should say.
“Well, I guess, but—”
“So that’s what you meant when you said you’d tasted a lot of ass.”
“Yes. Wait, no. I didn’t say that.”
“I’m not judging. Paid or not, you clearly get a lot of ass.” Her eyes roam over me sort of speculatively.
“Thank you, I think.” I feel my expression flicker. This is the most bizarre conversation ever. “But that’s not—”
“Oh, my God.” She grabs for my hands and holds them between us. “This is amazing!”
“Is it?”
“Divine intervention for sure! Thank you—thank you so much,” she adds, her gaze tipping to the ceiling. “I mean, I’ll obviously pay you. For your time. And only for your time. I mean, it’s been a minute . . .”
A minute since she . . . had a ride?
Confirmation comes as her eyes drop to my crotch.
What in the name of all that is holy! She actually thinks I’m a male escort? I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified.
What Would Fin Do? I hear that bastard’s voice in my ear like he’s standing behind me, whispering over my shoulder—I hear it so clearly, in fact, that I glance at my wrist, half expecting to see a beaded bracelet there. I know exactly what Fin would do, the feckin’ opportunist, because his emotional depths run as deep as a yogurt pot. Premarriage, anyway.
“Listen,” I say, starting again. “I think we’ve got our wires crossed. When I said I’m the kind of man to get you out of this, I didn’t mean physically.” Not that I’m not tempted. Physically. What man wouldn’t be? Feisty, fiery, and as hot as fuck, she’s a regular pocket rocket, this one.
“‘Always hire the right man for the job.’ You said that was your motto. And the right man is you.”
“That’s not exactly what I said.” Though it kind of is. “Look, I’m not . . .” Fuck, I can’t even say it, the idea is so ridiculous. “What I meant was—what I know is you won’t miss out on anything by not going to the wedding.” My response sounds harsher than I mean it to, and because my knees are starting to ache, I take the seat next to hers.
“It’s not like I want to go,” she murmurs, dabbing her eyes with her fingertips.
“Then you don’t have a problem. Don’t go.” I rest my arm on the table next to my pint.
“You don’t understand. I’ve got to be there.”
“Maybe you think you do, but take my advice—it’s better you stay well away.” I reach for my glass, maybe to prevent myself from spilling my own tale and tangling this knot tighter. Or maybe this is just really thirsty work.