Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Think of the tips, I tell myself. Obviously, not from him.
“I am a fucking regular!”
“And I’m Meghan Markle.”
“What?” For a minute, he looks almost to be considering the truth in this. But really, would she be working in some crummy bar on the Upper East Side? In a blonde wig, faking an English accent?
No, I don’t think so either.
“Listen mate, you are a grown man who doesn’t even have the excuse of being drunk to cover his rudeness.” Because the rock star has been drinking soda all night. “And you’re throwing a temper tantrum over a Reuben. Sort your flippin’ life out.” And with that, I walk to the opposite end of the bar.
Zen. Zen. I am so motherfluffin zen.
“Has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?”
And . . . there goes my zen.
I stifle a sigh not bothering to look up, choosing instead to tidy the tray of cocktail shakers, citrus juicers, and muddlers sitting beneath the two feet of mahogany separating me and my smooth-talking compliment-er.
Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll realise this compliment-ee wants no part of his bullshizzery.
“Are they, like, gold or something?”
“Or something,” I mutter. It was probably a lucky guess. I doubt he can tell the colour in the dim lighting. I’m also far from flattered given he’s the third man to say something similar tonight. Also, it’s strange how they all seem to think my beautiful eyes are glued to the front of my T-shirt. Anyway, I’m pleased the crowd has thinned out, maybe thanks to an earlier deluge of rain of almost biblical proportions.
Maybe there’s something in the Manhattan water supply that makes beer goggles super effective.
“Gold, definitely. I can tell you’re a little shy, too. So why don’t I break the ice by telling you about me.”
Oh, go on then. If you must. I mean, it’s not like the more you talk, the more you irritate me, is it? I feel like I should stick my head out of the window to check if there’s a full moon tonight because the dogs are out in full force, preening and howling at the bitches. And boy, do I feel like a bitch.
“My name is Kristoff,” he says, obviously not picking up on my crumbling zen. “I’m a single thirty-five Taurus. I enjoy cooking and I love to snuggle, which makes me either perfect or gay. Do you wanna find out which?”
“Absolutely,” I say as I straighten, not missing the flicker of surprised satisfaction in his gaze. “My best friend is gay. I could set you up with him.”
“What?” Bewilderment ripples across his face. “I’m not . . . gay.”
“Really?” My expression twists. “How do you know? You sound pretty confused.”
“No, you misunderstand. I want you to come home with me.”
I wipe my beer sticky fingers on the front of my stupid apron as I consider the man in front of me. He’s objectively handsome; well dressed and leanly built. And he has such soulful, brown eyes . . . which just goes to show how deceptive appearances can be given the crap he’s spouting. But the icing on the cake that is Kristoff might as well be cat food flavoured as far as I’m concerned.
Don’t worry, Kris. It’s not you, it’s me.
I’ve been ruined for other men by a man out of my price range.
“What do you say?” He cocks one perfectly slim eyebrow in the kind of action that seems to say come on; I’m perfect rebound material.
Sure you are. At least until I wake up in a bed in a strange hotel suite with not even your phone number for company. Or worse still, discover you sell sex for shits and giggles.
Urgh, men!
“Come on,” he says with an amused huff. “I’m into you, handsome, rich—”
“And your Porsche is the exact colour as my eyes?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” This time, I don’t muffle my sigh. “Look, I don’t sleep with men I meet in bars. No matter what side of it I’m standing on. Not even the rich ones.” Or the ones pretending to be rich ones.
“I cook a mean breakfast.” He adds an eyebrow wiggle that is, quite frankly, baffling. Go on, love. Let me give you one tonight and I’ll chuck in bacon and eggs in the morning! “You’ll need it because I can go all night long.”
I bet he’d eat himself if he could.
“And something else that might interest you?” He glances down meaningfully. “I’m packing, if you know what I mean.”
“Hmm. Let me think about that for a minute.” I tap my bottom lip with my forefinger, appearing to contemplate this temptation when the only thing I actually contemplate is the how much I suddenly want to jump over the bar and smack him over the head with a stool. “Tell me, exactly how well-endowed are we talking about here?”