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)
He has the good grace to look mildly ashamed. But not for long, and it doesn’t stop him from once again demanding, “Tell me.”
“No. I’d prefer not to.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll think it’s stupid. I think it’s stupid.” A sigh. “Why do you even care? Where is this sudden concern for a commoner like me coming from?”
“Commoner.” He snorts. “I don’t know. It’s not like there aren’t things I should be doing. Call it curiosity. My gran always said I had an excess of the stuff.”
“Great.” I down more of the drink and watch him out of the corner of my eye. If I avoid direct eye contact, he might go away. A girl can hope. “The Tabasco is a lot. But there’s a hint of citrus too. I think it’s lime juice.”
“Bartenders tend to have their own recipes. But it’s usually some combination of pickle juice, horseradish, and Worcestershire sauce.”
“Look at you, being all fancy and correctly pronouncing woos...wooster...whatever that sauce is called.”
“Worcestershire?” He bites back a smile. “If I promise not to think your story is stupid, will you tell me?”
“Will you promise to go away if I do?”
“Sure.”
He sounds sincere. But I need to see his face to know if I can trust him to keep his word. That’s what I tell myself, at any rate. There is nothing wrong with his strong jawline and high forehead. His nose, however, is almost too large for his face. Nice to know he’s not perfect. He has well-proportioned lips and a subtle natural sort of pout. But it’s the air of rugged masculinity that pulls the whole thing together. The whole thing being him. It’s clear why the press calls him Prince Charming. He definitely qualifies for dashing and dreamy.
And he sits and waits with amiable patience while I look him over.
“Well?” he asks finally.
“You’re too handsome. I don’t trust you.”
He’s not as successful at smothering his smile this time. “This from the woman who bedazzled poor Paul from security and left him to deal with her mess.”
“You mean like with rhinestones?”
“No. I do not.”
“I did kind of lose it back there,” I say. “I’ll have to buy Paul something nice to say thank you. But I object to you saying I bedazzled him.”
He just raises a brow. Jerk.
“Be real. I’m a solid six. And there is nothing wrong with being a six. Now and then, when I’m in the right mood, I happen to have a great personality,” I say. “But unlike you with your pretty privilege, I don’t go around just... Why are you looking at me like that?”
“How should I look when you’re talking rubbish?”
“It’s not rubbish, it’s trash. We’re in America. We have trash. Get it right.”
“Whatever,” he says, quoting me back to me. “Just tell me the story. Why are you drinking that? You obviously don’t like it. What else haven’t you tried?”
“I don’t know. I’m too busy spiraling to know things.”
He gives me a long look. Then he picks up the drink menu. “Do you like champagne?”
“Not really.”
“That just means you haven’t sampled the good stuff.” He gestures for the bartender and says, “A glass of... Actually, make it a bottle of Dom Pérignon for the lady, please.”
I push my Bloody Mary aside and rest an elbow on the bar. “You’re buying me a bottle of champagne?”
“I am,” he confirms, as if surprised himself.
“Why?”
“In all honesty, you look like you need it. Badly.”
I snort. “Thanks.”
“And I really want that story.”
“You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”
In lieu of a response, he removes his leather jacket and lays it on the bar. Of course, his biceps are sublime, with just the right amount of bulge. The man needs to get away from me. I only just had my heart trampled last night. Though it’s hard to worry about Josh and his wandering ways in the face of everything else going on.
My unwanted companion watches me as the bartender sets down two glasses and the bottle in a bucket of ice. Once she pours the champagne, he gives her a curt nod. As if he has been waited on hand and foot for the better part of his life and is comfortable with it. As if it is his due. Which makes sense since he’s sort of royalty.
I pick up the glass and take a cautious sip. There’s the usual faint taste of fruit and bubbles, but better. It is delicious, and the happy humming noise I make gives it away. Dammit.
“Look at you, all angry that I was right,” he says with glee. Asshole. “Now tell me the story.”
“Fine. But you’re not going to believe me.” I hold up my hand, showing him the cuts on my palm, half healed and covered in scabs. So gross. “My hip is also one big bruise, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t show you that.”