Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Stone nodded. “Hard not to hear most things in a town this size, but it’s all just a rumor, which Sophie refused to confirm or deny when I asked. Which, knowing Sophie, is a kind of confirmation on its own.
He was right, dammit. And that just pissed me off. “This should be you and Sophie, you know that right?” Stone refused to tell her how he felt even though it was obvious to anyone who had eyes, and Sophie had to be the blindest matchmaker on the planet. Because she just didn’t see it.
Well, that was the charitable explanation for her behavior, anyway.
Stone said nothing in reply, just adjusted his pole and cracked open a beer. He handed me one and shrugged. “What are you gonna do?”
A bark of bitter laughter explode out of me and I shook my head. “Spend the next few months trying to get Olive to talk to me, I guess.”
His brown eyes stared at me for a long damn time and I didn’t know if he really was trying to put me out of misery, or figure out what I’d done wrong. “Does she have reason to avoid you, Liam?” That hint of protectiveness that rose in his voice brought a smile to my face, because Olive brought it out of just about everyone.
“Hell yeah, she does,” I admitted and told him about all the calls and messages she’d made and how I ignored them. “Every last one of them.”
Stone let out a low whistle that scared the fish nibbling our lines as well as all the birds within earshot. “That’s a dick move.”
“Yeah, thanks. I thought she was calling to, you know, get to know me better. Or try to turn one night into something more.”
He let out a low, amused laughed that only grew more intense when I glared at him. “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of lady whisperer.”
I snorted. “Me too. Apparently, Olive is immune to my charms. Now.”
“Well,” he said slowly, a grin spreading from one ear to the other, “I think I can help.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Stone and I were friends but Sophie was his best friend and the girl of his dreams, no way he’d take my side over hers.
Stone shrugged and reeled in his first catch of the day. “Let’s just say that helping you will also help me.”
My curiosity was piqued as I cracked open a beer. “I’m listening.”
“Sophie is on a kick lately to get me to start dating.” Stone rolled his brown eyes towards the sky and blew out a breath, a twisted grin on his face. “Signed me up for one of those damn TFL mixers but I’m not going.”
“Your tone says you’re looking for a reason not to go.” As much as Stone didn’t want to go, he needed a damn good reason not to attend because he would never, ever disappoint Sophie.
“If you take my place then you have all night to get Olive to talk to you. Pretend you need help talking to women, or whatever. The point is she’ll be there and she can’t leave.”
He made an excellent point. Mostly. “You think flirting with a bunch of women all night is the best way to get Olive to talk to me?”
“You probably shouldn’t flirt with them, no. But I know that Olive won’t shirk her responsibility to TFL, not ever. Not even to get away from you.”
I ignored the sting in my chest at Stone’s honest words, but I had to acknowledge the truth of those words. Not even to get away from you. This was my chance. My opening. “What’s the dress code for a mixer anyway?”
In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.
Olive
You know those pregnant women who glowed under the extreme hormonal shifts and somehow managed to find the cutest maternity clothes and look as if they never ever broke a sweat? Well, so far, I was not shaping up to be one of those pregnant women.
Instead of glowing, I was sweating. Some might say profusely. But that wasn’t my biggest problem because sweat was natural, there were even ways to mitigate it, which I’d become an expert at recently. No, it was the nausea that was wreaking havoc on my life. The nonstop sickness that never even gave you a heads up when it was on its way up, meaning plenty of embarrassing moments featuring yours truly, tossing her cookies in the nearest empty receptacle.
But it was a part of life that I was slowly, but surely, growing accustomed to. I’d even allowed myself fifteen minutes to deal with nausea and fixing myself before the mixer started. And here I was, in the public restroom at Carriage House, rinsing my mouth and pinching my cheeks to appear less pale and deathlike when the clients showed up.