Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Since Wallace is my teammate and seems to like hanging out with me, he’s what I’ve got at the moment, as shitty a friend as he may be.
“Yeah she was normal, about yay high.” He extends his arm, palm turned down to indicate how tall Miranda was.
“Short?”
“About five four.” He spits a fingernail onto the hardwood floor.
“Could you not do that?” I’m trying to talk, for fuck’s sake. None of the other guys on the Steam seem to act like this—why did I get stuck with Wallace following me around like a stray cat?
Because, dipshit, you haven’t told him to piss off.
The thing is I can’t. He’d be pissed and it would cause friction and I have to work with the douchebag.
So, I lean forward a little, cocking my head, arching my eyebrows expectantly. “If this were you and I were doing you a favor, I would give you more information.”
He looks up. “What the hell kind of information are you looking for? I picked up the card so you could self-isolate and I dropped it off. What more do you want?”
I want him to tell me more about Miranda.
Buzz Wallace sits back in the chair, crossing his beefy arms. “Wait…do you want information on the girl?”
Finally, he gets it.
“Pfft. No.”
He stares me down, those blue eyes unblinking. Narrow. “She was cute. Small. I didn’t really get a look at her tits. Kind of a bad attitude.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know—she didn’t count the money and she was bossy.”
“What do you mean?” I sound like a parrot, repeating myself. What do you mean, what do you mean?
“I don’t know, man. She was just trying to get in and get out, if you know what I mean. She was in a hurry, that’s all I’m saying.”
Translation: She wasn’t into him and didn’t want to stick around and flirt.
Wow. A girl who doesn’t fall for his charms? Miranda just earned another point.
“Well thanks for going—I appreciate it. I would have gone myself, but I had…” I rack my brain for an excuse. “I’m getting a head start on my taxes.”
His brows shoot up. “You do your own taxes?”
No, but I have a hand in them so I know what money is coming in and what’s going out. I don’t want to get bent over and fucked up the ass by my manager, who also has his hands in my finances.
I let the silence linger, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.
He stands. “You got any of that food leftover from the game this weekend?”
“No, I sent it home with the cleaning ladies.”
“Damn, I’m hungry.” His hands are on his hips and he’s rolling them, stretching—right there in the center of my office, like it’s a yoga studio. “What else you got?”
“Fruit.”
He shakes his head. “Nah, not in the mood. Got any burritos?”
“No, dude. Go order one.”
Wallace glances down at me. “Can’t you do it?”
“What the fuck do I look like, your personal secretary?”
“Nah, she quit weeks ago.” He says it so nonchalantly.
I stare at him for a few seconds. “Yeah, probably because working for you is like working for a toddler.”
A spoiled one who is good-looking and pleasant to look at and therefore always gets his way.
Must be nice.
Wallace continues stretching, bending his leg back and grabbing his ankle.
“Now what are you doing?” Man he aggravates me.
“Think I’ll go for a run around the neighborhood—how far is it if I do the loop?”
“Don’t you have your own subdivision to run in? It has to be mine?” Why won’t he just leave so I can shoot Miranda a note, thanking her for the sale?
He goes about stretching his arms, pulling back on his elbow. “Yeah, but too many people know me and always want to stop me to talk. Ain’t in the mood.”
I sigh. “It’s three miles.”
“Cool, I’ll do it twice.” Bending, he reties his sneakers, the hair on the top of his head a gleaming, glossy mop.
Fucker.
“Where are your water bottles?”
“You run with a water bottle?”
He stares at me like I have two heads. “You don’t?”
“Uh, no.”
Wallace pulls at the elastic waistband of his track pants. “I tuck it into my waistband, der.”
I glare. “Bottom drawer to the right of the sink.”
“You keep your water bottles in a drawer?”
“Would you just go!” He’s making me insane!
“Christ, testy much?” I hear him muttering under his breath as he walks away, toward my kitchen. “Someone needs to get laid and it isn’t me.”
God, I hate to admit it, but he’s right.
I do need to get laid.
Except I can’t do it with a stranger. Not after my last one night stand.
“Hard pass.” The words and the laughter ring in my ears, bringing a blush creeping to my face, heating my neck and the space between my pecs.
Dammit. I hate it bothering me that much after all these months; the girl was a complete asshole, straight up laughing in my face. Thinking she was such hot shit, doing me a favor by fucking me.