Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
The fabric is soft and hugs her body in a way that makes me jealous. Her exposed shoulder showcases a swath of tanned skin, and the slit up her right leg is a tease if I’ve ever seen one.
I might not have had the nicest car in the parking lot, but I have the hottest date. Period.
Larissa looks up at me through thick, dark lashes and smiles nervously. “Hanging in there?”
“I feel like you didn’t accurately describe what we were getting into,” I tease her. “I heard some work event for your stepdad, and you brought me to a who’s who of Georgia.”
She giggles. “This is one of the more low-key affairs of the year. You should see the Fourth of July thing. They get a boat and caterers, and there are fireworks. Last year, someone brought a giant floating duck that attracted a shark, and things got a little hairy.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Can I get an invitation to that?”
She laughs.
A woman approaches Larissa. I’m briefly introduced, but her name slides right by me. They get involved in a conversation that I lose interest in immediately. Instead of trying to follow along, I gaze around the room and wonder what her stepfather does for a living.
The walls of the banquet room are covered in black bunting. Lights shine behind it that somehow make the room feel like a forest or some kind of magical cave. Trees and shrubs have been brought in to add to the effect.
It’s definitely on a level I’m not used to. The five-piece band is playing smooth jazz, the commercially-oriented crossover jazz. From memory, I know it became dominant in the eighties. But it suits the opulence of the night and is doing exactly what it’s intended to do by creating an easy-listening ambiance.
Maybe my music minor isn’t a bust, after all.
Round tables are set up throughout the room, and I know from a communications class I took that the arrangement encourages conversation. I wonder if all the conversations tonight will include the life-sized ice sculpture of a man with a baseball bat pointing at the sky in the middle of the room.
Larissa touches my arm and brings my attention back to her.
“Okay,” she says. “Sorry about that. That woman is a talker.”
“It’s cool.”
She exhales. “My mother knows we’re here. Are you ready to start our mission?”
“I’m ready and willing.”
“Good. Before we go over there, her name is Trista Cunningham. Her husband is Jack Cunningham.”
I gasp. “They have the same last name?”
She smacks my arm. “Don’t be a dick.”
“Anything else less obvious that I need to know?”
Her gaze sweeps around the room before it comes back to me.
“Jack co-owns the Savannah Seahawks. They’re a minor league baseball team. These people are management, players, former players, businesses that sponsor different ballpark events, or bankers. You get the idea.”
I nod.
“But,” she says, lowering her voice, “none of that specifically matters to us. Our mission is solely on my mom.”
“Right,” I whisper conspiratorially.
Something about her enjoys this little game of us teaming up to … do whatever it is we’re doing. But I get it. I kind of like it too.
“Give me my marching orders again,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to make your mom think I’m totally obsessed with you, right?”
“Well, I mean, if you have to be obsessed, then do.” She pretends to be flattered, making me laugh. “But really, I just want her to think I’m seeing someone so she’ll stop setting me up with random guys who I have no interest or business dating. Because if you weren’t here, she would’ve set me up with someone, and she’d be naming our future children by now.”
“Rude.”
She shrugs. “It comes from a good place. I think.”
“I’m going to warn you,” I tell her. “If she’s after cute grandkids, you’re in trouble. One look at me, and she’s going to think about how she hopes her daughter breeds some of these genes into your gene pool.”
“Breeding your genes into my gene pool?” She lifts a brow. “When you say it like that, it’s such a turn-on.”
I laugh. “Would you like me to rephrase?”
“No.”
She swats me again, but this time, I grab her wrist. Her eyes go wide as they meet mine, and her breathing stalls in her chest.
We haven’t talked about the kiss from last night. And while we might not have talked about it, I know she’s thought about it. She’s replayed it ten times in her mind since I’ve picked her up. I’m not judging her because every time I catch her looking at my mouth, I’m thinking about it too.
Logic tells me that kiss was a mistake. Why bother kissing a girl who I know on a cellular level could get under my skin? I’ve made it a mission in my life—went completely out of my way—to avoid anyone I think might be able to get to me.