Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
My shoulders shake with silent laughter. Nothing that’s come out of her mouth is wrong, but girls—especially the jersey chasers—usually have the opposite reaction to the blond football player.
“Gee, Lola. You seem so conflicted. How about you stop being so wishy-washy in the stances you take.”
A few chuckles tumble from her lips. “You’re right, I should probably do a better job of keeping my opinions to myself. Especially when I’m at work.” Our feet slow as she nods toward a woman sitting alone at a table for two. “I take it that’s your mom?”
My gaze slices to the pretty blonde staring at her cell, tapping away at the screen which is difficult to do with her long nails. There’s a different Birkin sitting on the table off to the side. This one is a vibrant orange color that screams money. She’s wearing a silver, curve-hugging, long-sleeve top that bears just a bit of her midriff, shiny black pants that are skintight, and sky-high heels with red soles. Today, her blonde hair has been curled into soft waves that tumble down her back. My guess is that she’s wearing extensions. Her makeup is flawless, and her forehead is smooth and unblemished.
“Yup.”
From the corner of my eye, I watch the other patrons seated in the vicinity turn and stare before whispering to the people they’re lunching with. The woman no longer understands what the word understated means. Instead of trying to blend in and call the least amount of attention to herself, she dresses like she’s starring on a housewives’ reality show.
A sigh escapes from me as my body deflates. Only now do I realize that asking her to meet here was a mistake. But it’s not like I wanted to have lunch with her on campus.
Can you imagine the spectacle she’d make?
Just thinking about it is enough to make me cringe.
I haven’t even greeted her yet and I’m already knee deep in regret.
Is it too late to turn around and hightail it out of here? I can text her from the parking lot that I wasn’t feeling well.
Before I can take a hasty step in retreat, she glances up and catches my eye. Her hand rises in the air as she waves her acrylics. They’re pink and encrusted with tiny gems that sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight that pours in through the windows.
My face heats when a few patrons turn and stare. We couldn’t look more different if we tried. I’m inconspicuous and she’s over the top. For this occasion, I chose a black Western ballcap that’s pulled low over my eyes along with a sweatshirt and leggings that I threw on after dance class. There wasn’t time to shower and change after Ford took off. So, I probably reek of sex.
Really hot sex.
And I have zero regrets about that.
“I’ll give you two a couple minutes to look over the menu and then I’ll be back to take your order.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Her voice drops. “Now excuse me while I deal with that walking clap diagnosis.”
With that, she swings away and disappears to the front of the restaurant. It takes effort to force my feet into movement. I’d much rather stand here and chitchat with Lola than deal with the situation at hand. My only consolation is that the quicker I get this over with, the sooner I can take off. It’s always possible that I’ve blown everything out of proportion. Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about and Pamela has changed.
Grown up.
Reprioritized what’s important in life.
What? It could happen.
“Hey, baby,” she says, rising to her feet and closing the distance between us. With her sky-high heels, she towers over me like some kind of glamazon who doesn’t belong in such an ordinary environment.
From the corner of my eye, I catch the guy’s reaction at the next table. His mouth is hanging open, and his eyes have widened as he continues to stare.
Ugh.
Our embrace lasts for a second or two before I untangle myself so we can settle in our respective chairs. I glance around, hating the attention she always seems to draw, and pull my cap a little lower over my eyes.
Unsure where to look, my gaze reluctantly settles on the leather bag. “Did you just buy that?”
“Crawford surprised me with it the other day.” She beams like a new mother talking about her baby before trailing her fingers lovingly over the handstitched leather. “Isn’t he the sweetest?”
“He’s a genuinely nice guy,” I say seriously.
“He certainly knows the way to my heart.”
Yes. It’s paved with Birkins.
Her obsession with over-the-top luxury items is borderline embarrassing.
Before I can say anything else, Lola stops by the table. Mom orders a skinny margarita and chicken fajitas. After I decide on the cheese enchiladas, the dark-haired waitress takes off again with the promise of two glasses of water.