Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
But I have to be grateful for one thing—his donation of sperm—because it gave me Gigi, and she is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
The song currently playing, “Stay” by Zedd and Alessia Cara, comes to an end, and then Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” blasts out from the speakers. The crowd goes nuts. And I’m thrown back fifteen years to nine-year-old me standing in front of the TV, watching the music video on MTV, trying to learn the dance moves to this song, and my aunt Elle joining in with me.
Aunt Elle doesn’t have a rhythmic bone in her body. Great cop. Terrible dancer.
The memory makes me smile as I pump my body to the beat, pushing to excess, doing the dance routine my body remembers, even now from all those years ago.
I’m sweating. I’ve been dancing for a while now. Kim should be coming to take over soon. We always switch, doing twenty- to thirty-minute intervals.
I’m ready for a break, so I can recharge.
I push tendrils of hair off my face with my palm. My long brown hair is tied back in a high ponytail. I have naturally straight hair, but I have that overprocessed, shitty hair that goes frizzy without products and straighteners—hence the ponytail and stray hairs.
I feel a hand curl around my ankle, grabbing it. This isn’t unusual for people, especially men, to get a little overly friendly. They think because I’m up here, dancing, that they have the right to touch me.
I look down and see a suit and a head of blond hair styled in that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that everyone knows he spent hours perfecting.
I meet his stare, and the telltale sign of too much alcohol shows in the glaze of his eyes—well, that, and the beer bottle he’s holding in his hand, which is forbidden on the dance floor.
I glance up and scan the area for security to alert them, but I can’t see any of them. My eyes cut to the bar, but it’s busy with customers, and I can’t catch any of the bartenders to make eye contact.
For fuck’s sake. Looks like I’m gonna have to handle this myself.
Keeping my expression friendly, I crouch down, putting me at eye-level with the handsy drunk. He’s actually not bad-looking close up. Still doesn’t give him the right to put his hand on me though.
I tap him on the hand. “No touching,” I kindly tell him.
“Oh. Sorry.” He removes his hand from my ankle.
See? Wasn’t that easy? No security needed at all.
“No problem.” I smile. Feeling generous toward the guy, I ask him, “Did you need something?”
He returns my smile—well, it’s more of a grin—and then he says, “Yeah. You naked and in my bed, baby.”
Ugh. And my good feeling toward him evaporates.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
If I had a dollar for every time I heard that line or one close to it, I’d be lying on a lounger right now in the back garden of my mansion in Beverly Hills, sunbathing by my Olympic-size swimming pool, with a Jason Momoa lookalike rubbing my feet in between serving me margaritas and servicing me—wink, wink—all day long.
“Yeah, not gonna happen, buddy.” I laugh.
I go to stand up, but he snatches my wrist, keeping me there. His grip is tight, and even though I’m surrounded by hundreds of people, I still feel that momentary spark of panic, but I fight it back down.
One good thing my ex did do, aside from giving me Gigi, was teach me how to defend myself. The plus side of dating a boxer for four years.
I stare him straight in the eye. “Let go of my arm.”
“Aw, baby, don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.” He flexes his fingers around my wrist.
“I think you need to go back to school and learn the meaning of the word. This is your last warning. My next one won’t be so nice.”
“I’d listen to her, if I were you.”
Handsy Asshole lets go of my wrist and spins around to face the voice that just sent chills down my back. And not the good kind of chills.
My eyes cut up and over the head of Handsy Asshole, and for the first time in five years, I stare into the eyes of Zeus Kincaid.
The cheating bastard and heartless son of a bitch who walked away from me and his unborn child.
Ah, fuck to the hell no.
The shock of seeing him after all this time has his name rushing out of my lungs. “Zeus.”
“Hi, Dove.” His familiar deep voice saying the nickname he gave me all those years ago elicits a thousand memories. Good and bad.
I used to love it when he called me Dove.
Now, I hate it.
He called me it from the moment we met. Said I was like a dove. Beautiful and fragile. With my fight hidden inside me.