Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Honestly? I don’t know if I like what I see. I won’t say I have regrets, per se. It’s pointless to dwell on what you can’t change, and on principle, I’m still a fan of work hard, play hard.
But I always figured I could play as hard as I wanted until I didn’t want it anymore. That I’d have a chance for the wife and kid and Disneyland vacations when the time felt right.
Now? I’m a little terrified I won’t even get that chance. Not unless I can convince Lara that while I may be a womanizing bastard, I’m not a law-breaking one.
Shit.
I take another sip of my drink and shift to scan for the waitress and close out. I should be at home working on that damn list of people who might have framed me, not pretending I’m twenty-four without a care in the world.
The room’s more crowded than it was just a few minutes ago, and I don’t see my waitress through the tight asses in tiny dresses and bros unsubtly trying to make their move.
In the sea of bare female legs, a denim-clad pair catches my gaze—both because they’re long and damn good legs and because they’re unusual. Jeans in a club? Maybe in January. On a sticky summer evening, most of the women are wearing short skirts or dresses.
The woman stands up from her table, and my eyes travel from the sexy heels up the dark-blue of the tight jeans, lingering on a great ass. The yellow top’s both slinky and a little bit prim, with a crisscross back and preppy lace.
The hair’s long and blonde, the face . . . Come on, darling, turn around.
The woman heeds my silent command, bending to pick up her purse and turning so I can see her profile . . .
I spill my drink all over my shirt.
Worse, it’s a red drink on a white shirt.
“Motherfucker,” I growl, wiping stupidly at the stain, my mind reeling. What is she doing here?
Pearl is quite possibly the last place I’d ever expect to see Lara McKenzie. Maybe it isn’t her, just a look-alike.
The waitress apparently decides to take pity on me, because a wad of small square cocktail napkins is dropped onto the table in front of me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing a couple of napkins and swiping futilely at the red blotch on my chest.
“I’ve heard club soda works for red-wine stains. Not sure about the fruit punch thing you’ve got going.”
My hand goes still. That’s not the waitress’s voice.
I lift my head, and my gaze collides with familiar blue eyes, fears confirmed. Not the waitress. Lara.
“It’s not fruit punch.” My tone’s just a touch childish, but I don’t care. This is not what I need right now.
Lara’s eyes drift down to my shirt and back up. Her lifted eyebrows say it all: Looks like fruit punch.
“It’s a Negroni,” I explain, as though that’s what matters at the moment.
“Oh right,” she says. “My grandmother used to drink those.”
Fantastic, I think as I rub at the shirt. Now I remind her of her grandmother twice over—first with the orchid, now with my cocktail of choice.
I glance up again, and Lara’s gone. I’m torn between disappointment and relief that she didn’t stick around to witness more of the train wreck that my evening’s becoming.
I pull out my wallet, hoping I have enough cash to cover everything so I can get the hell out of here without having to wait for the waitress to find her way back to me.
“Holy crap, that’s a lot of cash,” Lara says, returning to my table.
I blink in surprise, first at the cup of clear liquid that’s set in front of me, then at the woman who slides into the booth across from me.
“Club soda,” Lara says, nodding her chin at the cup. “Let’s see if it works.”
I give it a skeptical glance. She reaches across the table and pushes the glass closer.
Reluctantly I pick up a clean napkin, dunk it unceremoniously into the soda, and then rub at my shirt.
The result is a wet ring around the red stain that fades . . . not at all. Now my shirt’s red and wet.
I look up and see that she’s withholding a laugh. Barely.
Crumpling the napkin into a ball, I throw it across the table at her, and she bats it away before it hits her chin, the laugh slipping out.
No, not laugh. Giggle. The SEC investigator is giggling. And not an annoying, high-pitched girlie giggle, either. Just a feminine sound of enjoyment . . . at my expense.
“Sorry,” she says, still smiling.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you?”
Her gaze drops to the stain, then meets mine again. “Not really. How much is it bothering you to look less than perfect right now?”
I grin. “Are you saying I look perfect other times?”