Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Damn, I like the way I look. I bet he will too. The man seems to like pink. No reason not to lean into his color preferences.
I flip my head over, fluff my hair a final time, then pop back up in a cloud of chestnut waves. Yup, I’m ready to see my teenage wet dream.
A flare of excitement lights up inside me, but I do my best to keep it in check.
I don’t want to get too caught up in my girlhood crush.
This is just drinks.
I focus on the practical details. Gin Joint is about a mile away, so I’ll ride my scooter. I can have a drink and not worry about driving home. Grabbing my little shoulder bag, I leave the bedroom then find my fave four-legged person in the living room, this time curled up on her red velvet dog chair like a little queen. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone,” I tell Gigi.
She looks like she’s saying: I’m perfect, don’t you know?
“Yes, I do know that,” I say, then bend over her throne to tap her little wet nose. She licks my face, letting me know she forgives me for even suggesting she’d be less than a lady while I’m gone.
I head to the garage, tapping a note to Maddox on my phone as I go. Guess what I’m doing tonight? Taking the scooter you got me as I head out on a date!
His reply is instant. A date with a bad boy?
I laugh, shaking my head. He’ll be so proud of me. I’m turning over a new leaf. I’m taking a good guy out for a spin. So there.
Enjoy the ride. And of course I mean the…guy.
As I sling on my helmet, I write back: Maddox, who’s bad now?
Then I tuck the phone away and dial into the moment.
Not the past and my long-ago lust for Gabe Clements. But the present and the challenge. As I ride through the neighborhood streets, I imagine leaving a trail of bad boys in the dust.
I’m living in a new town where I’m going to be a new woman. A woman who knows how to pick ’em. Not a woman who gets tangled up with cons, jerks, and thieves.
I turn onto the busy main road, then park on the sidewalk outside Gin Joint, hop off the scooter, and unsnap the helmet. I peer in the window, fluffing my hair.
But before I push open the door to the too-cool lounge, the butterflies flap wildly in my chest.
Again.
I’m about to have a drink with the guy I harbored a wicked, forbidden crush on when I was in high school. Back then, I was fifteen. He was twenty-five. He was all kinds of off-limits, and yet Gabe Clements sleeping on my parents’ couch in all his muscly, bearded glory was my goddamn sexual awakening when I was busy growing boobs.
Well, I sneaked downstairs, of course and watched him sleep. I had no choice!
The butterflies race through me, kicking up naughty fantasies again.
Oh, hell.
What have I done?
Gabe might be a sweetheart, but there’s no way I can make it through an evening with the man without blurting: Do you know how many orgasms I imagined you giving me while I was under my polka-dot comforter late at night?
The answer? Countless.
But the man wasn’t only my teenage crush. He was my college fantasy too. When I saw him at his aunt’s eggnog-tasting party, I pictured him throwing me over his shoulder and stalking up the stairs, then manhandling me against the door of her guest room.
Stop, Ellie. Just stop.
I can’t linger on those dirty dreams.
I’m simply going to act…cool, casual, and totally unruffled by the filthy forbidden fantasies of my younger years.
I head into the speakeasy. Sensual lounge music greets me, a tune about how longing can drive you mad. It’s the kind of song you listen to on a hot afternoon as the fan rattles overhead, and you pour a stiff drink while lingering on thoughts of a lover.
Not helpful, sound system.
I should have suggested an alternative to Gin Joint. Counter offered with the Surf Shack or Tony’s Beachside Darts and Brew. Something easy with fries and margaritas and sunlight.
Gin Joint is low lights, pulsing music, and plush velvet couches. It’s foreplay.
But I’ve got this. I’m Reformed Ellie tonight, and I’m on a good-guy mission.
I avoid the chaise lounges and head straight for the bar. The bar is safer than the inch-closer-to-me vibe of the couch. As I weave past couples and groups of guys and gals, I’m hunting for the six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, steel-chested football player. But I don’t see Gabe, so I set my helmet on the bar, grabbing a stool at the end of the sleek metal counter. I’ll just take a moment to catch my breath before he comes in.