Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I don’t want us to be the only ones in the theatre, and I don’t want Asher to get any ideas. There isn’t going to be any sneaky slipping of an arm around my shoulders, sharing popcorn or drinks, and no swapping spit.
My inbox flashes a new message, so I open and read it quickly. Apparently, Asher is excited about my choice of movie, and of course he would be. It’s some token action thing. He did leave it up to me to choose, and I can’t remember the last time anyone did that. Certainly, Byron the bastard never would have let me choose. There was no way he’d ever go for anything other than crap action, and I hated it. I realize that in all the years we dated, we only saw two movies together. Most of the time, I’d go with my friends, and he’d go with his.
That’s basically how we did a lot of things.
I wrench around in my chair and face the back cabinet of my desk. My eyes are stinging and prickling like they’ve gone rogue cactus on me. I’m tearing up because I just realized what a waste the past three years of my life were. I mean, partner-wise. I can’t even call it a love life because it wasn’t really that.
Why was I going to marry the guy?
I know the homeless guy I gave my ring to was delighted with it. He’s probably the only one who got any real joy out of the thing. Would I seriously have gone through with an actual wedding? I got engaged six months ago, and I never even started to talk about setting a date. That should have been a good indication that I didn’t really want to get married. Byron, as usual, probably just wanted a free ride. The engagement ring was the only gift of any value he ever bought me. It was cheap, which was fine by me, but it seriously wasn’t my style, which said that Byron didn’t know me at all. He could have bought me something cheap yet still nice. Like a vintage piece off of a used site or something, which I would have been plenty impressed with.
“I am such a wreck,” I mutter under my breath. Doubly so because now I’ve downgraded to a fake boyfriend instead of a real one in order to save my butt.
Okay, so maybe he’s hotter than any boyfriend I’ve ever had, real or otherwise. He’s basically like a walking ice cream cone with triple scoops of cherry cheesecake ice cream. Meaning he’s good enough to lick.
He might not be able to put a table together, but my dad couldn’t have done it either, and I don’t think less of him. To be honest, the table might have been because of me. It could have been the parts I’d done that made it collapse. Asher wanted to have another go at it, but I told him to leave it. I also had to clean it up since it was covered in gooey cheese and messy pizza sauce.
I spin back around, the tears crisis averted, and dedicate my attention to killing the next two hours before I can go home and kill an hour before my date that’s not a date.
Those hours fly by, and before I know it, my doorbell is ringing, and I’m hopping on one foot to answer it while pulling on the sixth pair of jeans I’ve tried on and discarded. It’s just my luck that choosing an outfit for a fake date is no less difficult than choosing something for a real one.
I make sure my ripped-up skinny jeans are firmly and properly in place, and I also check to be sure that my shirt—an oversized flowy thing that looked great on the mannequin at the store but one I still have my doubts about because it fits really freaking weird, and it was also expensive, so I feel like it’s a crime not to wear it—is properly fitted and not exposing any bits and pieces. Namely, my nipples.
Fake dating does not include nip slips.
I should add that to the list of rules.
Asher looks incredible, and he’s wearing jeans too, paired with a flannel button-down. He looks so casual yet extra cherry cheesecake ice-creamy, which makes him look extra tasty.
Extra tasty? Am I even listening to myself? Way to objectify him. Or rather, foodify him. Whatever. It’s still wrong no matter what term is used.
I try to ignore the bulgy bits of him and focus on the more streamlined areas. Those ultra-wonderful jet blue eyes flash as they rake over me. “I like that shirt,” he says. Because, of course, he would.
“Your grandma is a famous designer. Also, I can see straight through your compliments about my wardrobe. Even though this shirt was stupidly expensive, it’s still bought at the mall. It’s not fast fashion, though, in case you were wondering. I’m much too conscientious for that now.”