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)
“Maybe I should just get drunk and pick one of them. Get it over with.”
“You don’t strike me as stupid,” I reply, unsure why my internal organs hate the sound of that. Not my circus, not my clowns, right?
“Part of me wonders if it might put an end to their fascination.”
“It won’t.”
In answer, she gives a careless shrug.
“Why hasn’t he done anything about this—your ex—if he’s the boss now?”
“The man who slept in my bed while professing his undying love to someone else? The same man who has wheedled his way into the CEO’s family?” She gives a whiplash flick of her wrist. “You tell me.”
I dip my head as I rub my hand over my mouth. Mainly to stop myself from calling a complete stranger a string of very offensive words. “You’re better off without him.” If my frown gets any deeper, I’ll be able to offer her a seat on it. An invitation I’ll keep to myself.
“Maybe I should beat all their brains into the industrial carpeting.”
“Maybe you should.”
“You don’t think I’m too pretty for prison?”
I give in to a reluctant smile. I’ve heard it said that the crazy ones are crazy hot in bed. Not that I . . .
“I’m tired of repeating that I’m not interested. That I have a boyfriend. That I’m off limits. That their jokes are old and uncalled for.”
“It’s so fucking wrong,” I put in, my tone low and angry on her behalf.
“But it’s my experience. I just don’t think that I can take things getting any worse.”
I must be soft in the head. I don’t know which is worse—that I’m contemplating giving in or the fact that I’ll have to pretend to be a . . .
Gigolo?
Man whore?
Bro ho?
A male fucking escort.
Maybe worst of all, a two-time wedding guest in one day.
Chapter 4
Matt
Apparently, I am soft in the head.
Not only am I about to suffer through my second wedding reception of the day, but I’ll also be pretending to be an escort who’s pretending to be a boyfriend.
What a head fuck.
As I reluctantly capitulated, Ryan, according to her belated introduction—and spelled the boys’ way, so she said—thrust her hand into mine and said she’d be eternally grateful for my help. It was strange how her tears seemed to almost evaporate.
After draining the last of my pint, I helped her into her coat, and we left the bar together. Much to the amusement of the barman, who seemed to think he’d just witnessed a lovers’ tiff.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but feel a little played, what with the flirting attempts and her tears. The tears were bad enough. Those big solemn eyes. And the flirting was cute, though a little desperate. But it was the genuine edge of her distress as she spoke of her ex and her so-called colleagues that changed my mind. No matter what my head told me, I couldn’t ignore it. So I can make peace with what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. But what I can’t get my head around is how I said yes to attending another feckin’ wedding.
I’d almost rather she did want to stick the points of her heels in my ball sack.
At least her company will be more fun than what I had planned, which was probably introspection and an evening drinking myself morose. In fact, just walking down the street with her is more fun than what I’d planned. The waft of her floral perfume, the tap of her heels. The brush of her arm and the gentle sway of her hips.
The beauty in spontaneity.
It turns out, Fin might be right.
Fucking Fin, I think less charitably. He can shove the rest of his advice where the sun doesn’t shine—shove it right up there along with his beaded bracelets, which, if I know him, he’d use as anal beads.
“Something funny?”
“Nothing.” Nothing other than the fact I’m allowing a woman small enough to put in a mail sack to herd me down the street. Not that I have a mail sack on hand, but I could outrun her if I had half a mind. The length of her legs . . . the height of her heels.
Maybe that’s why I’m still here. For those legs and those heels.
I examine the thought. It’s a possibility.
“If I’d hired an escort, at least I might get fucked at the end of the night.”
Her words pique my curiosity.
Not that I expect . . .
Not as though I’d say no either. I’m not that nice.
“Now you seem deep in thought,” she says, her amused gaze darting my way.
“Deep?” I kind of scoff because my thoughts are very shallow.
“Wanna share with the class?”
“Not really.” Fuck, she is lovely. I clear my throat and school my features. I said I’d help, so I will. Pot committed, in poker terms. This is a good decision, even if the situation is a bit fucked.