Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
‘When it happened before, I forgave him,’ Lizzy sniffs. ‘Thought it would just be a one-off, and I knew how you’d all react. I didn’t want you to think badly of him, and I didn’t want you to think I’m a walkover.’
I look across Lizzy’s head at Nat, giving her a guilty look. She returns it, knowing that’s exactly what we would have done. Bastard, I mouth, and she nods, her lip curling.
Lizzy howls some more, making our tangle of limbs vibrate. ‘It’s been going on for months,’ she sobs. ‘Some tart in the office. He’s been working late more and more, and I found text messages on his phone.’
Me and Nat scowl at each other, but neither of us say anything, probably because we have no idea what to say, leaving Lizzy to go on and dish the sordid details.
‘She’s twenty-one!’ she howls into my chest. ‘Twenty-fucking-one!’
Ouch!
Nat’s face is a picture of horror, and I expect mine is too. ‘Let’s drink,’ I suggest, now willing to get plastered on Lizzy’s behalf.
One hour later . . . or it could be two – I’m not sure – we are all pretty tipsy, but no one is crying so our inebriated states can only be a good thing. Micky has arrived, and doesn’t Lizzy know it. He looks gorgeous, his man-bun perfect. She’s all over him like a rash, and it’s not a problem for Micky. Though he does keep flicking wary eyes at me, waiting for the warning. It won’t come. Not tonight. Besides, Lizzy needs distracting and I’m too tipsy to care. A bit of harmless flirting won’t hurt.
Polishing off yet another glass of wine, I look around for Nat. I find her on the dance floor, all by herself, swaying to a bit of Moby. A few drinks inside her and she belongs to any dance floor, no matter where.
I shimmy over to the bar to get more shots, since we’re clearly not drunk enough. Ordering four Slippery Nipples with a grin, I bob to the music while I wait for the barman to get our drinks. I slip him a twenty. ‘Do you have a tray?’ I ask.
‘All out,’ he calls as he walks away with my money.
I look down at the four shot glasses, pondering what to do. There’s a simple solution, but I’m on my way to total drunkenness and it’s not coming to me, so I start to negotiate the tiny glasses between my fingers, confident I can manage them all in one go and save myself an extra trip to our table . . . which is twenty feet away. ‘Damn,’ I mutter, knocking one and spilling the stickiness all over my hand. I start to lick at my fingers, lapping up the creamy concoction, set on minimal waste. Then I take the remainder of the shot and knock it back, reducing my load to three glasses. Far more manageable.
If you’re totally sober. Which I’m not. I accept my change when the barman slides it across the counter to me. ‘Thanks,’ I call, starting to collect the three remaining glasses in my hands. Another one goes over, and once again I lick the mess from my hand.
‘You’re not doing very well there, are you?’
The amused voice pulls me around, my lapping tongue around my fingers slowing to a standstill, my eyes widening at the sight of the man standing next to me at the bar.
Holy . . . shit.
I’m not often rendered speechless. Never, in fact. Now is making up for it, and I can’t figure out if it’s too much alcohol or the awe I’m in. So fucking hot! I take in every teeny tiny piece of him, from his shoes – which, it should be noted, are very stylish tan Jeffery West brogues – to the very top of his beautiful head. I say beautiful. I’m not sure it’s complimentary enough. Classically handsome, maybe? Jaw-dropping? Stunning? Nothing seems adequate. He has scruff. Yummy scruff, which I guess is a result of not shaving for at least five days, and his grey eyes are ridiculously twinkly. Like little stars are popping in their depths. His hair is cut close to his head at the sides, but longer on top and manipulated to the side. Just long enough to hold on to . . .
I gulp down my wonder. The man can dress. Casual. Easy. A lovely fitted shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled up, loose and hanging out of his fitted Armani jeans. Did I mention he had good shoes?
‘Need a hand?’ he asks, eyeing me with . . . what is that?
A hand? Where would I put that hand? I tilt my head in silent contemplation, now staring at his hands. Big, capable hands, one wrapped around a bottle of beer. Then my eyes are lifting, following that bottle until it reaches his lips. His mouth opens. I catch sight of a sliver of his tongue, and his lips wrap around the bottle, his head tipping back. The throat. Holy shit, the throat. The swallow. The quiet gasp.