Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Besides, Alejandro will come and go, having as little desire for this crap as I do. It’s not his job to mingle and shake hands. It’s his job to jockey the horse, and he’ll want to be in the barn.
Where he’s comfortable.
“If you only have to be here for a few minutes, then what's the point of having flown me all this way just so I can protect you from vultures? Why are you being such a weirdo about this?”
If I didn't know any better, I could have sworn Molly was a few drinks in, but she's sober as the day she was born. Obviously, she's tired. We left Chicago at the ass crack of dawn this morning, went to the hotel to change, and came straight to the racetrack.
I have to give her credit. She cleans up nice. She looks classy, sophisticated, and beautiful and managed to find a chic fascinator to match her dress. High heels. Tan legs.
I would undoubtedly look twice at her if she was walking by.
My eyes wander to those tan legs as they ascend the staircase, her smooth calves begging to be touched. Sue me for looking. Her round ass and legs are in my face, so I have nowhere else for my gaze to go!
“You better not be looking at my ass,” she says as if reading my mind.
“I'm not,” I lie. “I'm staring at the ceiling. No one wants to see your bum.”
Molly laughs, knowing I'm full of shit. “Yeah, yeah.”
Her hand glides along the railing, thumb encircled by a gold ring.
Beneath her arm is a rattan clutch.
It takes no time at all to locate Alejandro in the crush, for he is a tiny man wearing an outlandishly loud outfit. Purple and orange jersey and purple breeches, you couldn't miss him unless you were color-blind.
Atop his head is an orange beanie with a pom, much like a golfer would wear. Who the hell comes up with this crap? Isn't it enough that they have to fight for respect in this industry, let alone wear these ridiculous costumes?
His horse came in second today, but for Alejandro, this was a prep race for the bigger derbies coming up. The ones that will earn him a large payout if he wins.
My hand goes out as he comes forward. “Elias Cohen. Que bueno verte?”
I take his hand in mine. “I’ve been good, thanks for asking. Good race today.” I hadn’t watched but caught the highlights on my way over in the car. “How are you feeling about Preakness?”
Alejandro nods. “Good.”
He’s a man of few words. That’s the only answer he gives me, and I don’t push the conversation further. I’m here to show support. I’m here so he sees me—and he’s seen me.
Mission accomplished.
I haven't even let go of his hand before we're interrupted by several fans in the box, two of whom want his autograph despite the fact we're not allowed to ask for autographs in the suites. If they want to fangirl over him, they should be doing it down by the barn.
No sooner is Alejandro slipping away does an arm glide over my bicep. When I look down, I'm surprised to see that it doesn’t belong to Molly. It belongs to a blond woman I'm not familiar with. She looks expensive and married, two things that never discouraged anyone from hitting on a man.
“Am I hearing that correctly? Are you his agent?”
Where would she have gotten that information from? The jockey and I barely spoke the words to each other, let alone spoke about work. How the hell does this person know who I am? I'm not wearing a name tag as most of the attendees are.
Hers says “Cookie.”
“I'm not technically his agent, no,” I confess, hoping she'll remove her hand from my body.
“Oh.” Cookie’s face seems to fall. “I thought that I read it somewhere.”
Read it where, Google? What the hell, lady? Be a little more discreet.
“Are you here for the weekend? My husband and I are throwing a party at our home tonight if you don't have any plans.”
I recognized the look in her eye. She is hitting on me not twenty feet from where her husband stands. I follow her gaze to a portly, gray-haired man wearing an expensive suit and smoking a cigar.
He's not paying us one bit of attention.
In swoops Molly like a feather on the wind, taking my other arm as if claiming me, kissing me on the side of my neck.
I shiver.
“Yes—so sorry, darling—Eli and I have plans tonight, don't we bumpkin boo boo?” Molly’s eyes do a quick scan of her dress, shoes, hat. “Cookie, is it? Lovely to meet you…”
She sounds like a bad pantomime of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady when she first learns how to speak proper English, drawing out each and every syllable.