Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 122514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 613(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Oh whoa. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk. I blinked back sudden tears. They’d come out of nowhere. I stuck out a blind hand for his cigarette.
He chuckled, swatting it back down. “Here. Drink this instead.” He pushed his beer into my hand, and I guzzled it.
He sat back, and the air felt lighter somehow. He finished his cigarette. “I saw Superstar’s interview. He flicked his ear.” His shoulder nudged mine.
I’d beamed when Reese did that, and I knew Grant had noticed, though no one else did. Reese made the gesture so subtle, it looked like he was flicking off some sweat or an itch. But I saw it.
“That was for you, wasn’t it? You used to do little signals all the time when we were young.”
I laughed, the beer helping with my throat. “That’s right. The good old…” I scratched my nose with my middle finger.
He laughed too. “Yeah, and this one.” He made a circle with his thumb and finger, moving another finger through the hole.
“That’s not that discreet.”
“It is when you did it behind Keith’s back.”
I groaned. “He’s such a dickhead.”
“He is a dickhead, yes.”
“How can you work there?” Scratch that. “How can you still work for him?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Patience. There’s a plan in the works.”
“Good. I support that wholeheartedly as long as it involves him getting fired in the end.”
“You know…”
Oh no. He was back to his serious voice. I shook my head, standing up. “No. No more real talk. I’ve handled what I can for the night.”
I was itching to shoot off twenty different questions to Reese—not because I was feeling uncomfortable, but because I wanted to see his responses. But I refrained, until after another beer.
Raising Grant’s beer, I finished it. “That is one thing about your fiancée, though. She’s not that perfect.”
He harrumphed. “Says you.”
I held the now-empty can out. “Her margaritas are too sugary. I need more beer.”
A laugh, then he stood with me. Taking the can, he nodded. “Then beer you will have. Come on.” He led the way. “We’re off for a refill. I need one myself.”
More than two hours later, after three more beers—don’t judge me—and one slice of pizza then I finally sent off another round of questions. I had thought long and hard about them—and by that, I mean I gave it no thought.
Me: Octopus or bear?
Me: Why do people have to have the last word? What’s the point?
Me: Why can’t people vacation in their own homes? That’s where all your stuff is.
Me: When global warming melts all the snow, will Antarctica have to change its name?
Me: Was I wrong for cheering in Aquaman when they tossed the trash back on the land?
Me: Stupidest advice you’ve ever gotten?
Me: What constitutes being nosy versus probing?
Me: Why do we call it a refrigerator and not a food-cooler?
Buzz.
Reese: Stop. Jesus, woman.
I giggled. Normally, I hated giggling, but in this instance, that’s what it was. I’d just gotten back to his cabin, and I was curled up on the couch, my phone in hand and what I could only imagine looked like an unhinged smile on my face.
I was buzzed, gloriously—a let’s-forget-reality kind of buzzed. It was the bestest.
The phone rang instead, and I hit accept. “When people work the midnight shift, are they nooners instead of a morning or night person?”
“Fuck’s sakes. I’m tired, woman. Stop. Turn the brain off.”
“Reese,” I whispered. More laughter. A hiccup now.
“What?” But he knew. I could hear his smile. “Ah. You’re buzzed.”
“I am. Did you use a one-use girl tonight?”
“Who is that?” a voice asked from where he was.
“Sorry,” he said to them. “It’s a chick. Hold on.” He was moving around. I heard a bunch of static sounds until a door closed, and his voice came back, dropping low, “Give me a second. I’m actually going to the lobby to have a conversation with you.”
“I’m a chick? Why not ducklings? Little ducks? Too close to little dicks?”
He barked out a laugh, then smothered it. “Chill. Give me a second to regroup.”
A ding.
“Are you on the elevator?”
“I am, and yes, there are people here.” He said to them, “Nice night, huh?”
A woman laughed. A guy said something. Then I heard, “You’re Reese Forster, aren’t you?”
“No.” I shot upright on the couch. “I’ve got him now. He’s mine.”
Reese snorted, but said to them, “I am.” To me, “One second.”
The elevator door dinged again, and I could hear Reese stop to take a selfie. He signed a couple things for them, and then the phone came back to his mouth. “Hold on. I’m moving somewhere more private.” He asked someone else, “My roommate’s sleeping, and I know you guys don’t like people to hang out in the hallways. Is there somewhere I can take this call?”
A sudden burst of laughter and yelling came from where he was, in the background.