Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“I am.” I pause, then recalibrate. “Oh, you mean the drink! Sounds good.” And also dangerous. I’m too wired to nurse a drink like that. “You know, a couple of those, and I’ll be flat on my back.”
Roman shakes his head and gives a laugh. “We can’t have that, can we?”
Help! “I’m partial to a gin rickey,” I add, as though this will somehow cancel out my idiocy.
He gives a nod that I hope is approving and orders. Bourbon for himself, top shelf—natch—the man is top shelf all the way. Gin for me, also top shelf, but more thanks to his generosity than any kind of statement. Thankfully, mine comes in a tall glass with enough club soda and lime to drown it in.
“Are you originally from Portland?” he asks, pressing his arm on the bar as he turns to face me.
I shake my head. “I’m from a tiny town on the coast.”
“What’s it like?”
“Portland? Busy, I guess. At least, it is to me. Though they do say Portland is where young people go to retire, so I guess busy is relative.”
“Do you like living there?”
“Sure. They take their coffee and brewing very seriously.”
“And their gin rickeys?”
I chuckle. “That’s not a Portland thing. I’ve just been making them for my nana since I was twelve.” Urgh, smooth, Kennedy. Nothing says sexy like bringing elderly relations into the conversation.
“And skimming off the top, I’ll bet.”
“I’ll never tell,” I reply, all innocent wide eyes. “Especially as I’m not twenty-one yet.” Dammit. I press my hand over my tiny purse—my tiny purse carrying my fake ID—stealthily glancing toward the bartender, hoping he didn’t hear. What the hell made me admit to that? In a hotel bar, of all places? Maybe hot men really do make smart girls dumb. Not that I’d know, given this is the longest conversation I’ve had with one of the species. “I’m only a few months short,” I add quietly. Apologetically.
“I reckon it’s a dumb law,” he replies, rubbing his thumb absently along his sharp jawline. “But I hope it’s not going to be an issue.”
“An issue?” I feel my brows pinch.
“Because I was hoping to buy your drinks for the rest of the night.”
A confetti cannon of excitement explodes inside because the Aussie hottie wants to spend the night with me.
Spend the night with me, or spend the night with me?
Oh, the images that begin to flicker in my head.
“Kennedy?”
I blink back into focus to find Roman’s blue eyes watching me.
“Sorry, I was just thinking.” Glorious thoughts. Wild thoughts. Improbable ones, too. “Why don’t you buy me this one for now.” I’m surprised how grown-up my answer sounds. A little husky, a little teasing. Maybe alcohol does have its uses as a social lubricant after all.
6
Kennedy
Past
WITH AGE COMES EXPERIENCE
At the bar, I sip my gin rickey as we talk. Get to know each other, I guess. I ask about Australia, and he’s so animated in his responses. He makes it sound so wonderful. He’s easy to talk to, uses his hands a lot, and asks the kinds of questions that show he’s interested.
“Come to the bathroom with me, babe?” I turn to April’s voice, watching as her gaze flicks between the two of us. The girl has questions. Suggestions?
I answer with a nod and a polite, “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Hurry back.” The smile he offers is a tiny bit devastating.
“Gah! He’s so perfect!” April squeals, her face appearing in the bathroom mirror behind me.
“The blond?” I ponder, dabbing on a little lip balm. “Gaz, I think?”
“I’m not talking about him. Your one! Mr Tall, Dark, and Eat You All Up.”
“He’s not my anything,” I demur, examining my reflection. Hot damn, I do not look like my usual self. My dress it’s basically a buttery-coloured sheath held together by a gold chain that runs around the back of my neck. The hem is high, the back low, and while it looks like the kind of dress Beyoncé might wear, I can’t lay claim to the same kind of curves. And for that reason, I’m grateful for the smoke and mirror pleating of the neckline. But you know what? I’m no longer silently cursing April for persuading me to pluck it from the rack, even if Forever 21 dresses are so . . . brief. It’s definitely not my usual style, but I don’t care about that right now because I feel good wearing it. And I like the way he looks at me.
Turning to face April, I lean my hip against the vanity and check my phone for messages. The piece of cheap crap is almost flat again.
“What are you doing? Trying to manifest a dick pic?”
“Ew, April!”
“Manifesting works,” she protests as she rinses her hands. “But you have the real thing waiting for you out there. It’s not like he separated you from the herd because he wanted to examine your nail polish. Naughty nude suits you, by the way. The colour of your polish,” she adds, glancing at my bemused expression. “But it could also be your status by the end of the night.”