Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“It was with a guy.”
Huh?
My head snaps up so fast I may have pulled a muscle in my neck. My chin’s hanging loose and I’m pretty sure a little spittle ran out the corner of my mouth. His eyes flicker to mine and away.
“Did you say…a guy, as in male?” I must be drunker than I thought I was.
“Yeah, there was a guy waiting for me at the restaurant.”
For once in my life, I’m having a real hard time finding the right words. “I…I’m sorry. I’m just…in shock.” Never in a million years did I think…why didn’t I consider it? Because I’m a bloody idiot, that’s why. I’m a self-absorbed fuckwit. He’s never with a woman. For the love of penis, he even has me chase them off. If that’s not a clear indication, I don’t know what is. “Are you bisexual, or full on gay?”
Don’t be full on gay. Please do not be full on gay. I beg you, God. I will never ask for anything else…and I mean it this time.
I didn’t think anything could make me feel worse than watching him walk out the door to go on a date, but this just did it. If he says full on gay, there’s a ninety-nine point nine percent chance I’ll start to cry.
“I’m not gay.”
The breath I’m holding hisses out slowly. “Okay,” I say, nodding. “Okay, so you’re bisexual. That’s good news.”
His head tilts and his brows lower. “I’m not gay, or bisexual––and why would it be good news?”
Why would that be good news? Good question. I blink. I blink some more. Thinking on my feet is nearly impossible. “Never mind. Never mind. Do not mind me.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he quickly adds. Exhaling loudly, he does a thorough inspection of the kitchen ceiling while he repeatedly runs a hand through his hair, turning it into a disheveled mess.
Not for other men. I enjoy man on man action as much as the next girl, except when it involves the man I’m currently lusting after.
“It’s Norma. She thinks I’m gay. She set me up with her Pilates instructor.”
Again––speechless. Now is not a good time for me to be drunk. I need all my faculties intact to find my way around this labyrinth of a story.
“Your grandmother thinks you’re gay?”
“Apparently,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Otherwise she wouldn’t have insisted I go on a date with Daryl.”
“Why would you agree to a date with Daryl?”
He blasts me with a squinty eyed glare that has me taking a step back. “I wasn’t informed whom I was meeting.”
“Whom? Seriously? You’re using good grammar at this hour?” I get a subtle hitch of an eyebrow and I’m immediately chastened. “Right. Sorry. Your nana thinks you’re gay.”
“Which means that you’re coming with me to my grandmother’s birthday party.”
“Nooooo,” I say, head shaking. “Sorry. No-can-do.”
“Yeah, you can and you will.” From the look on his face, I don’t stand a chance of talking my way out of this. “Don’t make me call in my favor.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You owe me, Jones. And this is how you’re going to repay me.”
Chapter Thirteen
It’s days away from March, and the weather continues to be as hideous as ever, no end to the cold in sight. One loathsome word has been bandied about all week––the dreaded N word, Nor’easter. Also known as mayhem accompanied by blizzard like conditions that tend to dump a ridiculous amount of snow in a very short amount of time. Possibly the only thing capable of bringing this city to its knees. Not even a couple of psychos and some planes could accomplish it.
My phone chimes with an incoming text.
Fancy: Alien the director’s cut or The Matrix?
He’s been on the road for the last two and half weeks––Dallas, El Paso, Charlotte, Miami––and seems to be racking up enough frequent flyer miles for a free trip to the moon. I’ve been getting a lot of calls and texts, usually at night and typically under the guise of checking in on the status of the construction. Which has been progressing at an accelerated pace since the day Morrison got his ass chewed out. Although that portion of the conversation usually lasts about a minute and then we’re on to the next topic.
Me: Tough choice. Where are you and why are you still awake?
Every time I get a text or the phone rings and the picture of his sweet bubble butt appears on screen with McButterpants stamped across it, my heart beats a little quicker. It is downright horrible how eager I am for even a scrap of his attention. I’d love to say something poetic and liken it to a flower being drawn to the sun, but in reality I’m a crackhead looking for her next fix.
Margin note: I took that picture surreptitiously. He has no idea.