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)
My eyes dart toward the stairs, then back at the blonde, who’s watching my every movement.
“Thanks. However, I’m not staying long.”
Not anymore.
Another young woman approaches, setting her hand on the back of the blonde’s shoulder, leaning forward to rest her chin there as well, smiling at me with bright white teeth she can’t possibly have been born with.
I’m her prey.
Doesn’t matter if the blonde is her friend. She smells my single status and knows I’m an eligible bachelor.
I may not be a star or a celebrity, but I was voted Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor two years in a row by CHI magazine and had a feature spread last year in ESPN magazine.
These women may not have read those articles, but they certainly know who I am, what I do, and who I know.
Normally, I wouldn’t care.
Normally, I would make chitchat, connect with one, and perhaps even go back to her place for sex.
But for whatever reason, it—meaningless sex—holds no appeal to me tonight. The last thing I’m thinking about is banging someone with no strings attached, and the idea of that skeeves me out even more.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Penelope and her daughter and my client, Jack Jennings, with their domestic bliss and disgustingly cute display of family.
Gag.
I don’t need that in my life. Not now and probably not ever.
Once upon a time, maybe, but not anymore.
What I do need is room to focus, not women breathing down my neck for me to take them out. Randoms I’d gone out with already still messaging me. Randoms I’d gone for drinks with who were still showing up at my penthouse, buzzing to get in at all hours of the night. Random chicks I’d met at clubs who knew my name, where I worked, and who my clients were, dropping into my social media messengers with nudes.
Obviously, nothing is wrong with a casual fling. The problem is: these women don’t want to keep it that way. They want commitment. They want big, sparkly rings. Babies. Mansions in the sky and weekends at the lake, or New York and LA.
Do I want that too?
I did.
But I was a different person years ago, and I’m not going to dwell on what could have—should have—been.
My mother always told me (and now my sisters do, too) that when I meet the right someone, everything will fall into place, and I’ll know what I want.
“It will happen when you’re not looking for it.”
Super.
Can’t wait.
The blonde in front of me is talking, shrugging the friend off her shoulder, and while they’re bickering, it’s my time to extricate myself from this trio.
“Someone was saying you’re a sports agent,” the brunette blurts out, wineglass gripped between long, lithe fingers. She’s pretty—they both are—but I can see her calculating things up in her pretty head.
My contact list, my friends, their jobs, their salaries.
Who can she get to by dating me?
The bags, the cars, the trips.
“Yup.” I employ the same tactic as the girl in the sweatpants, popping a carrot into my mouth and chewing to give myself time before having to answer again. “My sister is Kate, by the way.”
“Which one is Kate?”
I nod toward the kitchen. “She’s in there.”
Let them figure out which one my sister is. We look nothing alike, and the room is packed with people. Plus, Kate will kill me if they start hounding her the same way the blonde was hounding… Sweatpants Girl.
“So you’re an agent?” She repeats it again because I hadn’t given her an answer. This kind of hunter is a different breed.
Relentless.
“Yup.”
The brunette nods. “That’s so cool. Represent anyone I would know?”
I nod. “Probably.”
She can google me if she wants to know. I’m in no mood to tell her.
I take another carrot, this time popping the entire thing in my mouth, then another, even though I fucking hate carrots. They’re orange and boring and taste like lame wads of vegetable.
“My brother’s friend from college knew a guy from the next town over where we grew up who played division one football in college, and he was drafted into the NFL.”
Oh jeezuz. I can hardly make sense of what she just said. “You know someone who knows someone who knows someone from the next town over who plays football?”
She beams back proudly as if I’ve just solved her riddle. “Exactly.”
She winks.
In goes more carrot, and at the rate I’m going, I’ll have 20/20 eye vision by the time I walk out the front door.
Ha ha.
The brunette waits for me to finish chewing before asking me another question.
She’s no dummy.
“What kind of car do you drive?” I must look surprised because she backpedals with a nervous laugh, briefly covering her mouth with her hands. “I mean—I’m in the market for a new one, and I’m looking for recommendations.”
A dozen responses are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. Instead, I grab the plate I’d made from the table and let my legs do the talking for me as I head for the stairs, not knowing what I’ll find at the top.