Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Don’t be a tease.”
He grimaces and groans. Like he didn’t kick off the topic. “I have a tendency to be the one before the one. The penultimate partner, shall we say.”
“What proof can you offer?”
“Google it if you like. Fuck knows there’s been enough written about me.”
I think it over. “No. I don’t think so. I’d like to hear it from you.”
He gazes at me out of the corner of his eye for a minute. Like those internal scales of his are busy with the judging once again. Then he checks over his shoulder to make sure no one is listening. And finally, he says, “Eleven of my, shall we say, longer-term partners went on to get married straight after me.”
My eyes are as wide as can be. “Eleven?”
“Yes.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I am not.”
“Wow. I feel like such a failure. I’ve only had four boyfriends ever, and one of those didn’t even last three months. You know, I’m not even sure I have eleven friends.” I stare at him in awe. Or something like that. Given the situation, I would rather not like the man, but he’s not making it easy. There’s the whole hotness thing, of course. But then he goes and compounds the issue by being so easy to talk to. Some of the time. Most of the time. It’s like we have our own little comfortable bubble of space at the end of the bar. “What kind of time period are we talking about here? How long were you with these people?”
He blows out a breath. “I don’t know. Say half a year and more. Three years at most.”
“Huh. Interesting. Would you call yourself a serial monogamist?”
“I don’t need to—you just did.”
“Do you consider yourself a good boyfriend?”
His chin jerks up. Arrogance has most definitely entered the conversation. “I am an excellent boyfriend or partner. The latter feels like a more adult term for the situation, if you don’t mind.”
“Have you been told that you’re an excellent partner, or are you just jumping to that conclusion because...”
“Because what?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I was hoping you’d finish the sentence.”
“I am not finishing that sentence.”
“Okay.” I lick my lips and his eyes track the movement. Which is interesting. “How many people have you dated in total?”
“I’m not answering that either.” He laughs softly. “But I will note that I think I’m older than you.”
“Yeah. But still...would you say that the bulk of your breakups were brought about by your own actions?”
“No comment.”
“How much downtime do you tend to have between partners? Are you actually comfortable on your own, or is that a problem for you?”
“Still no comment.”
“Were these relationships largely based on sex or friendship or what exactly?”
“You’re just going for broke now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Lilah,” he says in a chiding tone, “for shame. I’m beginning to think the second bottle of champagne was a mistake. Now give me the lotto ticket so I can check the numbers.”
It’s like he throws cold water in my face. All levity disappears without a trace. “It’s time?”
He nods somberly.
My hand is shaking as I search through my purse. Meanwhile, he pulls up the lotto website on his cell. And sure enough, it has been updated. “Read them out to me,” I say, holding the ticket. And now it’s shaking too.
There’s no dawdling or telling me it is going to be all right. He just gets down to business. “Five, eight, twelve, twenty-four, thirty-nine, and forty-three.”
The blood drains out of my face. I feel lightheaded, wooziness taking over. There is every chance I am about to vomit or faint or fuck knows what.
“Lilah?” he asks. When I don’t respond, he takes the ticket from my hand. His gaze roams over it, his face dead serious. “You got five numbers.”
“Yeah. I—I knew I didn’t remember them all.” I sound so calm, and yet my head is spinning in circles. “She rattled them off so fast, and I was a little distracted from almost getting hit by a car and being told that my boyfriend was cheating on me and so on. But five. Huh. Not bad.”
“Shit.” He grabs hold of my upper arm to hold me steady. “Lilah, you’re okay. It doesn’t mean anything. Apart from you having won some cash. You’re going to be fine. It’s just...”
“What. It’s just what?”
“It’s just five numbers,” he says in the same calm tone. “You have to be rational about this. It doesn’t mean you’re going to die.”
“Thank you for waiting with me.” I grab the bottle of champagne and hug it against my chest. Who cares about cold and damp? This baby is most definitely going to come in handy when I get home and have my second serious meltdown of the weekend. If I can just hold out until I get there. “But I think I should go now.”