Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“Tina!” Melody says, outraged.
“What? She said it herself, she thinks the guy’s really hot. She might as well fuck him. They’re engaged!”
“She’s having a hard time with this,” Melody says through her teeth. “Have some compassion.”
“This is compassionate, sweetie. Kat, I love you, but you’re engaged to an eleven-out-of-ten, just about the hottest sort of guy you can possibly ever be with. You’d be freaking insane not to have sex with him. Who cares if you two aren’t madly in love? Look at him! Let that man go to town on you!”
“You’re awful,” Melody says with a sigh.
But Tina’s right.
I’m not about to say that out loud—there’s no way I’m going to put up with Tina feeling smug—but she’s right.
I’m going to marry Ford. I know it’s weird he ran off the day after we had our little intimate moment, but we’re doing this for real. I’m going to be his wife and we’re going to have children, which means we’re going to have to have sex sooner or later, and yeah, I find him really attractive, and—
God, she’s right.
I might as well sleep with him and find out if we’re compatible now, and if we’re not, maybe we can work on it. But if I wait too long and things get too weird between us then maybe I won’t ever be able to make it work.
Ah, crap.
We finish up lunch without them dragging me through the mud for too much longer, although they do pepper me with logistical questions, half of which I can’t really answer. Tina heads back into the city, Melody goes out to the paddock (“Seriously I’m going to die today,” she says dramatically as she trudges off.), and I find myself alone in the employee bathroom staring in the mirror, fixing my hair, my heart racing and my core clenching with excitement.
The lighting in here sucks. I look tired and sweaty. I am not wearing a cute bra.
Whatever.
I’m doing this.
I pull my shirt up and press my tits together and hold my camera up—and take a picture.
It’s awful. I delete it and do it again, and again, and again, until finally I get one where I don’t look demented.
I open my text conversation with Ford and attach the picture. My heart’s going wild in my chest and I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking. This is madness, pure and utter insanity. Ford’s still more or less a stranger! And I’m about to send him a sexy picture.
The girls are right though. I’m engaged to this man and I need to start taking that seriously. Grandfather wants me to get dirt on him and ruin his life, but I can’t bring myself to actually follow through with that. Anyway, I can’t think about Grandfather while looking at a picture of me squeezing my tits together and pouting into a dirty horse farm mirror.
God, this is stupid.
This is mortifying.
I hit send.
The pictures whooshes through time and space and I immediately want to delete it. Oh my god, this is a mistake, what if he thinks I’m hideous and doesn’t like me or what if he’s embarrassed for me—I mean, I’m this stupid virgin girl sending bra pics on command and that has to be just the most pathetic thing imaginable, right? He’s going to take one look at that picture and want to leave me right away and then where will I be? How will I help Mom? I’ll have to beg Grandfather to take us back, and he’ll make me marry someone absolutely loathsome, some dork that won’t ever ask for nudes because he’s too afraid or something, and all because I’m such an embarrassing, pathetic, ugly loser—
Three dots appear. He’s typing a reply and I think I might be sick.
I’m going to pick you up from work today, he says.
I stare at those words.
He’s going to… pick me up… from work.
In response to a picture of my tits.
The picture he requested.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I just did the most embarrassing and risky thing I’ve ever done and he responds like there’s no picture of me shoving my tits at him? I don’t even know how to respond. I’m flabbergasted. I’m utterly in shock.
I type, All that stuff better be built. I send it over, turn off my phone, and shove it in my pocket.
I stare into the mirror at myself.
Ford Arc is such a piece of garbage.
I went out on a limb there and tried to do something sexy, even though I’m so incredibly self-conscious that I’m trembling right now, and I’ve never done something like that before, and he replies with something about giving me a ride home like we’re talking logistics.
Seriously, what the hell is with this man?
Rage wells up and rushes through me. That asshole knows what he’s doing. He’s fucking with me because he can. He has way more experience in relationships than I do and he knows that when a girl sends him a picture of her boobs, the response she wants isn’t something about driving her home after work. The response she wants is glowing praise and maybe a couple comments about how hard his dick is, but mostly glowing-fucking-praise.