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)
How weird is that?
Claire has lost her damn mind.
“You know there's nothing wrong with being single, right?”
Her face contorts. “Why would I want to be single?”
Okay, clearly, we have two extremely different mindsets when it comes to dating, relating, and relationships—where I am content with single life until I find someone I click with (which I haven’t), Claire feels better about herself when she’s dating someone.
I’m no mind reader, but that’s my professional opinion based on this painful interaction.
I actually feel bad for her.
Also, I’m desperate to get away from her.
“Oh my god, there he is.” Claire is literally, dramatically clutching my arm. “Don’t look.”
I look. Of course, I do. It’s human nature to look when someone says not to look. At least it is for me.
A man has joined us in the dining room at the table as he puts together his own plate, and I’ll be the first to admit he’s good-looking—in an “I think I’m good looking” kind of way.
Tall.
Stubble from not having shaved, which I do not exactly hate.
Sandy brown hair. Bright white smile.
Button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a tattoo sleeve in stark contrast to the pale-blue dress shirt.
Bit of chest hair peeking over the top button that I try not to stare at.
My chin tilts.
Hmph.
Whatever.
Claire catches me looking. “I said don’t look,” she hisses through clenched teeth, still gripping my arm.
“What am I supposed to do? Stare at the ceiling? He’s at the table.”
“Oh my god,” she groans. “Lower your voice.”
“I thought you wanted to stalk to him. I mean talk. Talk to him.”
I laugh at my own joke, pleased with the sour expression on her face. If she’s trying to get Elias Cohen’s attention, she’d do well to turn her frown upside down.
“How’s my hair?” She’s practically gritting her teeth, and I bet her ass cheeks are clenched, too.
Poor thing.
“Great. Very Texan.”
“Huh?”
Huge hair.
Big. Puffy. Bouffanty.
She looks like a pageant queen about to make her grand entrance.
“It’s perfect. Not a hair out of place.” Because she’s used too much hairspray. If I lit a match, her head would go up in flames.
Claire continues to trail me.
“I have work to do, you know. I’m not going to stand around this table forever yakking with you.”
“What kind of work?”
Waving a fork around aimlessly through the air like a wand, I smile mysteriously. “Stuff and things. Important things.” So skedaddle. “I’ll get Posey in here so she can help you.”
I chomp down on a celery stick, and it’s so loud that even I recoil at the sound.
Oops.
Claire’s gaze is shooting past my shoulder at Elias, who’s getting so perilously close I can smell his cologne. Or aftershave lotion, or whatever it is good-looking men slather on to smell nice. In normal circumstances, I’d be disgusted by how much he’s wearing if I’m able to detect it, but it’s so good it’s making me hungry. Not in a sexual way, but in a way that makes me add more cheese and a few crackers to my heaping plate.
I swear I see him side-eye the gluttony. He looks directly at it. Don’t ask me how I know, but I can feel his judgment.
I shift my body away from him and give Claire another push in his direction.
“What, Claire? You said you couldn’t stop watching the Chicago Steam because you were so impressed with the new coach?”
I have no way of knowing whether or not the professional football team has a new coach, but that’s the first team that pops out of my mouth when I open it—and I say it loud enough for Elias to interject and correct me, thus joining the conversation, thus giving me a chance to introduce Claire and get her out of my hair and fade away.
Boom.
I just solved my own problem.
“Who was the old coach?” she asks dumbly, scratching her head and scrunching up her nose.
Okay. Clearly, she’s horrible at role-playing because she isn’t catching on.
“Uh. You know—the guy with the gray hair?” I make an eesh face at how stupid I sound, but it’s lost on Claire, who’s fluffing her hair and doing her best to pretend a hot guy isn’t standing nearby.
Still, Elias doesn’t interject, though it’s obvious he can hear us.
That sneak is listening to our conversation!
Scowling, I make fast work of grabbing what I want.
“Alright, Claire, you’re on your own. I have work to do.” I’d pat her on the back or the shoulder, but my hands are full, and I don’t want to drop anything on the dining room floor since I’d be the one cleaning it up.
“Don’t leave me,” she hisses desperately.
“No can do. Me gots work to do.” I now have a pickle dangling from my mouth as if it were a cigar, zero sympathy for her situation. I mean, it’s a man, not a life-changing job interview.