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)
I press forward, resting my elbow on the polished wood, shirt sleeve rolled to my elbow. Put out my forefinger to signal that I want some goddamn service.
Immediately, a bartender flies over, setting a napkin down in front of me. I lift two fingers and she sets another napkin beside it.
“What would you like?” I ask the nymph standing next to me.
“I was just going to get a mojito.” Her long, silky hair gets brushed behind her ear. “I’m not really much of a drinker,” is her excuse for the fluffy drink.
“One mojito, and one vodka tonic, heavy ice, three olives.”
“You got it Mr. Harding.”
Mr. Harding.
Miranda doesn’t catch my last name and even if she had, she would have no way to associate it with Noah.
Me.
She crosses her arms and scowls. “This is so unfair! I was standing there for at least five minutes and not one of them looked at me.”
She has no idea who I am—and I’m not talking about the fact that I am Noah.
She has no idea I am famous.
She has no idea that around here, in this town?
We are gods among men.
Leo, Davis, Buzz, and the others? Heroes.
Tripp Wallace, Buzz’s brother, is here, too. Tripp plays for the Chicago Blues, the professional football team, another local—and national—star.
So, of course, the fucking bartenders are going to zoom in my direction to help me—they recognize me, as does everyone here. They want to be seen with the men who are going to take their team to the goddamn national championship.
Her? Not so much.
“This place is full of small dicks, bartending staff included.” I can feel the smirk on my face as I insult every person in the club.
“Yourself included?”
“No. I’m only here because I was forced out of the house. This isn’t my scene.” I take the drink in front of me—the one Tiffany the bartender just set down—and sip while Miranda assesses me.
“What is your usual scene?” She takes a drink of her mojito, watching me over the brim of the glass, her eyes wide and sober.
“Home. The backyard. I jog a lot.” Work out a lot, too, because I have to, and practice—obviously.
“What’s so great about your backyard? Mine is all public access—there are people everywhere. Does your apartment have a community center?”
Uh, no.
It makes sense that she would assume I live in an apartment since we’re in Chicago and most everyone does, especially the people our age. Little does she know I’m outside of town, in a gated community, in a 4 million dollar house. By myself.
At 24 years old.
She would shit herself.
But also…
Maybe she wouldn’t give a crap, which I have a feeling would be the case. She knows Wallace is wealthy, knows he’s good-looking, and she still wants nothing to do with him.
“You’re doing it again,” she tells me, nudging me with her elbow, and I look down, into her empty mojito glass. Dang, she must have downed the entire thing while I was daydreaming.
She must be tipsy, feeling the buzz, if she’s teasing me.
“Doing what?”
“Spacing out.” Her smile is restrained. “I know I’m not that exciting—please do not feel like you have to stand here and keep me company.”
Guilt slams me in the stomach, a tight fist to the gut. Is that what she thinks? That she’s boring me?
Hardly.
“Sorry, I had a…” I search for an excuse. “It’s been a crazy week.”
“Right,” she deadpans. “Like I said, don’t let me keep you.” She pauses and looks over the bar top. “But would you do me one favor before you go? Can you order me another drink? They’ll leave me standing here all night and I don’t want to be empty-handed—it feels weird.”
That’s hardly a favor.
My hand goes out, finger up.
Tiffany is back in a flash; I hand her Miranda’s empty glass. “Mojito?”
I nod.
“Wow. That is unreal.” Miranda shakes her head—in disgust? Contempt? Disbelief? It’s difficult to tell under these lights, which have turned everyone a slight shade of blue. On her, it’s flattering, and I wonder what color her top actually is. “You just snap your pretty little fingers and she comes running over. Must be nice.”
It is nice, actually, but let’s focus on the word pretty. My pretty little fingers? Does she actually mean my hands or is she indirectly referencing my face?
I know I’m not much to look at, but she doesn’t have to be a bitch about it.
“I don’t understand. Why is it so easy for y’all to get service when I’m just standing here like a shit in someone’s punch bowl?” she muses, tapping her hand on the bar.
“Did you just call yourself a shit in a punch bowl?”
Her hand flies to her mouth, embarrassed. “Did I say that? Oh my god, I am so sorry.”
I shake my head. “Don’t be—it’s just not something I’ve heard a woman say before.” I’ve only heard it from men, usually when they have to take an actual shit. “Are you from the south? Y’all just rolls right off your tongue.”