Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 28709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 144(@200wpm)___ 115(@250wpm)___ 96(@300wpm)
But it’s Saturday night, and I hope to god that Brant goes out on the town because how else am I going to set my trap? As a honey pot, I need to seduce the handsome alpha male, and that’s not going to work if he decides to Netflix and chill for the night. I sigh, swiveling my chin to the right to stretch my neck a bit. It pops audibly, and I roll my eyes. It’s not attractive to do that, but then again, there’s no one watching at the moment.
Suddenly, the door to Brant’s house opens and the man steps out himself. Goodness, he’s handsome. Of course, I’ve already sort of seen him already, but his back was turned when I was at my parents’ house, and nothing prepared me for the sheer perfection of seeing him face-to-face. He’s got patrician features with a bright blue eyes; a strong jaw with a cleft in it; and a mouth so sensual it would look good on a woman. His black hair waves off a proud forehead, and he’s got the body of Hercules too, with broad shoulders, a muscular chest and long, lean legs. Of course, at the moment, my target’s clad in a black t-shirt and jeans as opposed to being butt naked, but still. If anything, the clothes only enhance how drop-dead gorgeous this man is.
But then, a shiver of doubt makes me go cold, and I duck behind the wheel reflexively.
Can you really pull this off? the voice in my head asks. Brant Harrison is a Greek god, whereas you’re you, Peyton, with junk in the trunk and a too-big butt. What if you fail? What if he’s not attracted to you at all?
I look down at my jiggly thighs, which at the moment look particularly meaty since they’re spread out against the car seat. But still, I’m here on a mission, and I give myself a pep talk.
Men are men! I scold myself. They like big tits and a big rear end, and you’ve got both. Besides, Rudy’s suffering because of this asshole, so you can’t let your dad down. Act slutty! Be a ho! You’re from Club Z, so you know how to make a man drool.
With that, I square my shoulders while staring out my windshield. As I watch, Brant gets into a truck, totally oblivious to my presence, before pulling out of the driveway and rolling down the street. That’s when I thrust my key into the ignition and start my car before trailing him. After all, the voice in my head is right. This man has made my dad’s life miserable, and he’s going to pay.
Fortunately, Brant doesn’t go far. He stays local instead of getting onto the highway, and after about fifteen minutes of easy driving, we pull into a strip mall. Then, he gets out of his truck before striding into a bar called the Red Rooster. It doesn’t look like much, to be honest. The bar occupies a corner spot in an otherwise unremarkable shopping mall, and has dark windows as well as a sign on the front with the logo of a Red Rooster. Very trite, if you ask me.
But I’m here for a purpose, and I scramble out of my rental vehicle before checking my image in the window. Blonde hair fluffed? Check. Tight purple dress? Check. A flirty smile? Check check. We’re good to go, and with a confident stride, I head to the Red Rooster.
When I open the door, I see that my suspicions are correct. There’s nothing special about this joint. There’s nothing not special about it either, but it’s just a dark, narrow room with a long wooden bar along one side, with bar stools tucked below. In back, I can make out a room of sorts which looks to be empty, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve caught a glimpse of Brant in the last seat in the back, and I sashay down while ignoring the other patrons.
I stop right next to him and pretend not to see him before shooting a smile at the bartender.
“Hey,” I purr with a smile. “A martini please? With vodka, not gin, and very dirty.”
The bartender nods and turns away, already pulling out the alcohol. In the meantime, I take a seat next to Brant and sure enough, he smiles at me.
“Hey there, sweetheart. You got a name?”
I pretend to be surprised that he’s even there.
“I’m sorry?”
His blue eyes flash merrily.
“Name? Mine’s Brant,” he growls.
“Oh, I’m Petunia,” I say with a sweet smile. “But you can call me Pet.” Using a fake name is part of my plan, and Brant doesn’t blink. Instead, he nods, his look speculative.
“Petunia, hmm? That’s a pretty name.”
I nod.
“Yeah, it was my mom’s idea. Petunias are her favorite flower, so when I was born, she named me after them.”