The Make Out Artist (Accidentally in Love #3) Read Online Sara Ney

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Funny, Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Accidentally in Love Series by Sara Ney
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Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
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It’s true; I’m surrounded by women everywhere. Every game, every party, every city I visit to sign new players. I get hit on constantly by mothers, sisters, and team owners’ daughters. Publicists and reporters.

The list goes on and on.

Not once has a single one of those women caught my eye.

Penelope tilts her head, nonplussed. “Want to bet?”

“You’re trying to bet me that I’ll meet someone?”

She nods. “Yes. You’ll meet someone, and it’s going to hit you like a Mac truck. Then you’ll come crawling to Jack and me for advice.”

I laughed and laughed again but maybe it was because of the beer. “You sound way too confident for someone who has no idea what she’s talking about.”

Penelope has no idea what my track record is and how many women I’ve dated that I had no actual interest in.

“You sound scared you’ll lose,” she taunts.

“Fine.” I’d held out my hand to hers and clasped it. “You have yourself a deal.”

And that’s how the bet was born.

We hadn’t laid any stakes on it, Penelope and I—but we will the next time we’re in the same room together.

I had a bet to win, and woman swarming me wherever I went. Okay, fine—they don’t swarm me, but it sure feels like everywhere I go, some thirty something year old female is doing her best to make her presence known or hits on me. Which normally I wouldn’t mind, but this time I have a clear focus:

Win that bet.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not even hyper competitive. I just think this is fun, and a diversion from reality: babysitting jocks and celebrities all damn day and night, with little time for myself, which is one reason I’ve never committed long-term to a woman.

I won’t be tied down.

My mom and sisters hate when I use that term, as if being in a relationship were a negative thing.

But they don’t know how much pressure I’m under and how much little free time I have.

Sure, I make time for the people who are important to me the same way I make time for my family. If they need me, I’m there—but there’s never been a female that’s attracted my attention enough to make me reprioritize my commitments to work…

…unless I count Laura.

My clients—most of whom are giant pains in the ass—I love like family, too.

Those are the people I go to bat for.

Those are the people I worry about.

Not random hookups I meet in the club or at parties because they want to date someone close to fame.

I’m not famous but most of my friends are, or were. Retired athletes. Football, hockey, and baseball superstars. Tennis pro’s. Several sports commentators, and child golf prodigies.

I watch as the young woman from the dining room takes the stairs to the second level two-by-two, plate piled full of vegetables and other snacks, wondering who she is and why she doesn’t seem interested in socializing with the rest of us.

I don’t know Posey all that well—she’s a friend of my sister Kate’s, from college, and Kate begged me to come tonight after finding out I had no plans and was going to be in town.

Nothing like a younger sister exploiting my weaknesses and taking advantage of the fact that I cannot tell her no.

She’s in the kitchen, head tipped back, laughing at something the dude in the navy polo shirt is saying; he looks rather douchey, if you ask me, so I scowl at her nervous giggling.

I can hear it from here.

Jeez, Katie, ease up on the enthusiasm. “He’s probably not even funny,” I mutter.

“Excuse me?”

It’s the blonde—she’s still lingering nearby, refusing to give up her post or the chance to make small talk.

Pointing at the kitchen with a cracker, I force a smile. “My sister. I can hear her laughing.”

“Who’s your sister?”

“Kate. The one in the pink sweater.”

The blonde nods. “I didn’t realize!” She’s overly enthusiastic and smiles too wide. “Your sister is here!”

Her voice is too high-pitched and excited to be genuine.

Cringe.

I back up a few inches, stepping away. “I’m only here tonight because she thought I needed to get out of the house.”

House?

Pfft. Penthouse, to be exact, but whatever.

Don’t want to sound like I’m bragging, but yeah—I’m on the top floor of a fucking fantastic forty-story building with a doorman and concierge and the best view in the city.

Ask my real estate agent, who pocketed two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of commission because of that view.

“I can keep you company,” the blonde says, and it occurs to me that I could introduce myself… which would open me up to actual conversation… which would mean I’d be stuck here talking to her… which would give her false hope.

It’s clear she’s been dying for a reason to speak to me, and I confirmed it by eavesdropping on her conversation with the woman who has completely disappeared.


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