Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“No. But I’m not sure if you’re doing this for the right reasons.”
“I shouldn’t want a boyfriend?” I scoff. “Would you tell him the same?”
Mario frowns. “Jude’s never had a girlfriend.”
“Is that a joke?”
“I don’t joke. He doesn’t even have sex that often either. Don’t believe the rumors you read online.”
I can feel heat creeping up my neck because he’s referring to that one time he caught me reading some social media posts about the Vipers.
And yes, there were girls gloating about sleeping with the Vipers’ players, including Jude, which for some reason made my day worse.
“I don’t care what he does with his private life,” I whisper.
“Again, you should now that you’re part of it.”
“I’m not. I just want him to leave me alone.”
“I’m telling you this as someone who’s known him since he was born. He’s not the type to be forced into doing anything by anyone. There’s nothing you can do that will make him give up. That will only happen once he loses interest.”
“You’ve…known him since he was born?”
“Yes. My mother is the Callahan family’s chief of staff.”
Oh.
My steps slow, and I watch Mario under the half-broken lamps. “Have you always stalked for him?”
“No. I’m a bodyguard, actually.” He sounds offended. “Special Forces trained.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”
“Yeah. It’s Jude’s.” I grin but clear my throat when he doesn’t show a reaction. “How was he when he was young?”
“Quiet, withdrawn, and prone to bursts of violence.”
“So just like he is now?”
“Pretty much.”
“Was he close to his mom?”
“Yes and no.”
“What…does that mean?”
Mario says nothing, signaling that the conversation has ended, and the rest of the long walk is spent in silence.
Once we reach the place in which I’m meeting my date, Mario retreats to the shadows.
The restaurant is one of those trendy, dimly lit places—low-hanging bulbs, sleek black tables, and the scent of rosemary and charred steak clinging to the air.
Soft jazz hums through invisible speakers, blending with the murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of wineglasses. The walls are lined with bottles of expensive liquor, polished to a shine, reflecting the golden glow of candlelight.
It’s warm, inviting, just like my date Toby, who waves me over from a table near the window, grinning wide.
I slide my glasses up my nose, touch my wrist tattoo, then walk up to him.
I’m self-conscious when I remove my denim jacket, revealing the blue satin camisole Dahlia lent me. It stops right at the waist of my pants, its spaghetti straps barely holding it in place, and the lace at the collar doesn’t do a great job of hiding my cleavage.
I don’t do dates that much, mainly because I don’t have the time or energy, but Toby is nice, and he’s often helped me with school material.
He asked before if we should meet up for a movie or dinner sometime, but I brushed him off. A few days ago, however, I was annoyed, so when he asked again as we were leaving a summer class, I said yes without overthinking.
Toby is 6’ tall with curly blond hair and soft features. He also wears glasses, though his are gold-rimmed, and he’s dressed in a button-up shirt and smart casual slacks.
Today, his hair looks shiny, his hazel eyes brighter than usual as he swipes a look over me, pausing at my breasts before focusing on my face.
“I’m glad you made it, Vee. I ordered some wine. Would you like some?” Even his voice sounds mellow, welcoming, nothing like the gruff grumbles of a certain someone—
No.
This isn’t about him in any shape or form.
I smile at Toby and think about ordering ginger ale, but then just go for wine as well so as not to seem rude.
As we wait for food, Toby slides both elbows on the table, leaning his chin on his interlaced fingers. “God. You look stunning.”
“Um. Thanks.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You look great yourself.”
It’s just words. Empty words. On paper, someone like Toby is my type. Softer-spoken, smart as hell, and just…not threatening, whether in looks, voice, or personality.
On paper, that is.
“You always wear those hoodies, but I knew you were beautiful beneath it all.” He grins. “So, tell me more about yourself. I don’t feel like I know you that well.”
I take a sip of my wine. “What do you want to know?”
“Like what do you do for fun?”
“Reading, watching movies, or going out for walks with my sister. I’m not that adventurous. What about you?”
“I love skiing and hockey.”
Yikes. I force a smile. “That’s cool.”
We talk about mundane things during dinner, and I have to take a break and go to the bathroom because I’m losing interest.
And I don’t want to lose interest, because I plan to have sex with Toby, or do oral or something. I need to prove to myself that I’m not sick for coming all over my stalker/potential killer’s mouth and that I would’ve reacted that way with any other man.