Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
“Hey!”
I turn, or more specifically, I’m yanked around by Courtney, the maid of honor and tonight’s official “party queen.” Courtney and I aren’t really that close, but we’re both great friends with Shana, the bride-to-be who’s bachelorette party we’re all out for tonight. Shana, by the way, who’s about to become one of those aforementioned trophy wives when she marries Don—twenty-five years her senior, three divorces under his belt, more money than he knows what to do with Don.
“Drink, bitch!” Courtney slurs with a huge grin on her face, shoving a flute of champagne my way.
“Nah, no thanks.” I make a face. “Gives me a headache.”
“Boohoo!” she drunkenly slurs at me. “Party pooper.”
I’m not nearly drunk enough for tonight. Not enough to deal with Shana’s sorority sisters from college. Or the fact that had history gone another way, tonight was actually supposed to be the date of my bachelorette party. But, it kinda goes without saying that canceling a wedding eight months before when you find out your fiancé is banging his secretary has a way of canceling the bachelorette party too. Duh.
Like I said, I’m not nearly drunk enough for this night right now.
Courtney tries to push the champagne on me again, but I shake my head once more.
“I just ordered a—”
“Hey!”
I blink as she seamlessly interrupts me with a sly, drunk grin.
“That guy is looking at you again.”
I groan inside.
Fuck.
“That guy” is tall, and built, yes. And clearly moneyed. And clearly has been staring at me all night. But he also clearly has “rich pompous douchebag” written all over his face.
Yeah, no thanks. Even eight months post-breakup with Jason without a single rebound fling, I have zero interest in Mr. Preppy Popped-collar Douche sipping his light beer.
“Girl,” Courtney sighs, hugging me aggressively before pulling back and giving me this sad-puppy look. “You are so much better off without your loser ex. I mean fuck James!”
“Jason.”
“Huh?”
“Ja—never mind. Yeah, fuck him.”
She grins.
“Soooo, finish my drink, and go over to that tall drink of hotness and get your freak on, girl!”
I’d rather fuck my shower nozzle, I think to myself, sarcastically at first before I realize how much better of an idea that sounds like.
“Manhattan?”
I turn, smiling at the still skeptical bartender before I drop my cash on the bar and take the drink. One sip has me sighing. Two has me smiling. A third has me actually feeling better.
Yeah, it’s been a shitty year. First, there was coming home to find Jason with his secretary’s Louboutins over his shoulders on our bed. Louboutins, as it turns out, he bought her with money from our honeymoon fund. Classy as fuck, I know.
So, that pretty much closed that chapter. Relationship gone, wedding canceled, oh, and place to live gone, since without Jason splitting the rent, I couldn’t afford the place by myself. Luckily, I’d just been hired for my new gig as the art teacher at Winchester Academy, and they actually had an option for me to live right on campus, at least temporarily, in faculty housing.
So, that’s my life right now. Single, pathetic, and finally giving up my dreams of being a professional artist in favor of teaching it to some of the most entitled, snobby, wealthy high school students on earth at the prestigious and snooty Winchester Academy.
What’s the saying? Those who cannot do, teach?
I quickly slam back another few sips of the manhattan, until I can feel the warmth of it melting through my cheeks.
The one upside to this bachelorette party is that we’re out bar hopping in Southworth, the very town that Winchester is in. Which means I’m just a quick Uber ride home. And that is fine with me, seeing how much I’m going to have to drop to get to Shana’s actual wedding in a few months, in freaking Napa.
At least when I sold out my dream for a paycheck, it’s a decent paycheck. More than professional painters make, that’s for sure. That’s what comes with working for the best of the best in private schools. Or at least, the most sought after for rich trust-fund brats. And rich trust-fund brats come from rich trust-fund parents. And rich trust-fund parents pay a lot for their brats to go to Winchester. So, the pay is decent.
Courtney dances away into the crowd of girls out tonight, but I hang back at the bar, finishing my drink as quickly as possible. And I’m pretty damn close to ordering another one, when suddenly I gasp as a hand comes down with spank on my ass and lingers there.
“So, we done playing games, honey?”
I whirl on the guy, yanking myself away from his hand on my butt as I glare daggers at him. It’s the douchebag from before, the one Courtney seems to think is a great fit for me for… who the hell knows for what reasons.