Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
No wonder he irritates me.
Too smooth.
Too handsome.
Too . . . just everything.
“How did you know that?” he asks when he returns, sounding begrudgingly impressed. “Do you moonlight as a midwife?”
I laugh, in spite of myself. “No. I have a kid, as you may recall. We discussed her at game night, when I said she prefers Chutes and Ladders to Scrabble. And I made sure her mom didn’t eat raw fish or drink too much coffee when she was pregnant.”
“How is Rosie? She was a total delight the time I met her with Hannah at the coffee shop,” he says, remembering her name as easily as he remembered the manager’s.
“Hi Marky Mark!”
I turn to find a college friend of Hannah’s sidling up to me. “Hey Yasmin!” Finally, someone I actually know at this party. I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life. Now we can stop talking about Asher’s mouth, for fuck’s sake. “How’s the art market?”
“Bangin.’ I’d ask you about your job, but I wouldn’t understand the answer. So, tell me about your daughter instead. How’s your little cutie-pie? What’s she up to?”
My chest squeezes with happiness, as it usually does when I talk about my favorite person in the universe. “Learning to read, doing both karate and T-ball. Her other skills include keeping me on my toes, and trying to wiggle out of brushing her teeth. She’s just finishing kindergarten.”
“T-Ball! That is totally adorable,” Yasmin says in her cheery voice. “And how’s Bridget? I haven’t seen her in ages.”
My shoulders tense. This is the seriously un-fun part. When I tell people I’m not with Rosie’s mom anymore. “We’re recently divorced,” I say plainly, keeping emotion out of my voice.
Which is somewhat easy to do. I’m not heartbroken about my split. For many reasons.
What I am is bitter. But nobody wants to hear that from a twenty-seven-year-old divorced man.
A hand flies to Yasmin’s mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s fine,” I insist. “Don’t worry about it.” I give her a huge smile to show I don’t care at all. And I won’t. Eventually. That’s what people tell me, anyway.
Even if signing my divorce papers made me feel like a giant fucking failure.
And even if my baby girl cried like she’d never stop the first night my ex stayed at her new man’s apartment.
“Now your daughter is getting a cousin!” Yasmin gushes, shifting gears maybe for both our sakes’. “That is so exciting.”
“Totally exciting,” I repeat, and I can practically feel Asher’s smirk even though I’m not looking at him.
“Well,” Yasmin says brightly, “I think I’ll go and congratulate her again.” She gives me a peck on the cheek and then beelines for Hannah.
I look into my empty juice glass and wish scotch were in there.
“Here,” Asher says, thrusting a bottle of beer in my direction. “I’m sensing you need this.”
“So I can entertain you some more?”
“No,” he says quietly. “Dude, I had no idea your divorce was official. How long ago did that happen?”
“Last month,” I mutter. “Although we’ve been separated for a year.”
He frowns. “So . . . you got divorced the same month that Hannah announced her pregnancy and right before she got engaged?”
“Yup.”
He toys with the label on his beer. “You know, your freak-out is starting to make a little more sense to me. No wonder you let whiskey drive the bus last night.”
I bark out a laugh without meaning to. He’s right, though. My sister is having a shotgun wedding, just like I did six and a half years ago after getting my college girlfriend pregnant. And look how that turned out.
Asher St. James isn’t getting that story, though. No thanks. Or any stories. Earlier, I could hear him fishing for clues about my sexuality. I’m bisexual. I’m not conflicted about it. My family knows.
But my drunken text rant was over-the-top embarrassing. There’s no way I want Asher to think that I was hitting on him. Like his ego needs any more stroking.
More guests come through the door, and he hurries off to greet them. I watch him go. Well, fine, I admire his ass in those trendy, close-fitting pants. Still, Asher is everything I’m not. He’s the life of the party. He was a professional soccer player; now he’s a top photographer of athletes and models. He’s sporty and artsy and smooth.
So damn smooth. Like his clean-shaven face that I bet would feel so good . . .
“Mark!”
I drag my eyes off Asher’s hiney and find my sister and Flip marching toward me. “Yes, Hannah. How’s your party? I heard they’re bringing out some vegetarian rolls, by the way.” I give her a wink.
“That’s amazing. Who could eat, though? I’m just so excited to see everyone!” She’s beaming and fanning her face with excitement. That giant rock on her finger hardly looks real. She sent me about fifty pictures of it yesterday, and I assumed the camera angle was exaggerating things.