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)
I stifle a laugh.
Cookie miraculously takes a few steps back, freeing me from her philandering clutches.
“Well.” Her chin notches up, smile forced and tight, probably from all her Botox. “If you change your mind, I’ll have my assistant leave you with my information.”
She slithers away to gossip with her friends, most likely about Molly and her low-brow…everything.
I know women like Cookie. Know her type. Where she comes from and what she’s thinking.
“What a snotty B,” Molly says under her breath. “My mother has a friend like that; thinks her shit doesn’t stink because she has a rich husband and doesn’t have to work. Spends all her time buying designer bags and looking down her nose at people. So gross.”
Which is what I’m up against. I don’t know if she’s seen some of the women my clients are in relationships with? They go from being humble and kind to contrived and snotty in the blink of a million-dollar contract.
“Was it necessary to call me bumpin boo boo?” I mumble when the blonde removes herself and idles away.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always wanted to have pet names for my significant other.”
She pats me on the arm as if I were a dog she was patting on the head.
“I’d rather have one nutsack removed than be called bumpkin boo boo in public again.” I swear to god my face is on fire, and I rarely get embarrassed. “If that’s what you’re going to call me, I get to come up with a name for you.”
“I’m willing to compromise and find a new nickname to call you in public.” She giggles. “Not into boo boo—noted.”
“I’m just saying—it felt made up.”
“Uh, exactly.”
“If we’re going to have pet names, don’t you think they should flow? Roll off the tongue naturally?”
She takes a sip of champagne. “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize pet names should sound natural and flow. I assumed the point was to make others uncomfortable so they’d float away and leave you be.”
I catch a snort from her.
“Fine. You have a point.”
Her hand is still on the crook of my arm, and I turn us so we’re facing the staircase, the descent back to reality.
“Should we split? Alejandro is saying his good-byes so he can disappear back into the stable until after the next race.”
Molly nods, setting her glass down. “Let’s. I’m starving, and they’re not serving anything but bird food.”
I'd planned for us to head back to the airport as soon as this little shindig was over, but now that we're here…Call me crazy, but I'm in the mood to stay a while. Find a bar tucked away where we can hide and settle in for some conversation and laughs.
Why rush back to the city?
I have a shit ton of work but nothing that can’t be put on hold.
“Question, and feel free to shoot me down. But what are your thoughts about staying here in town instead of rushing back?”
Rushing back to the airport? Or rushing back to Chicago?
Both. I'm in the mood to... stay?
Molly looks down at her dress and high-heeled shoes, a little smile on her face.
“I'm all dressed up with nowhere else to go. I mean, hey. I could live dangerously. Be spontaneous. It's not like being a wingwoman was on my list of priorities this month, so why stop the party train now?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call this a party train.” I lead her to the stairs, tipping my head at the security guards on our way past. “We have a car, and we’re all dressed up—I say we find some Southern food, some good whiskey, and avoid adulting for the rest of the day.”
“Sounds good to me. It’s not as if I have deadlines or anything.”
I glance over at her. “Was that sarcasm?”
“Oh, you caught that?” The smirk on her face is quite adorable.
We walk to the car, and I jiggle the keys, wishing I had hired a driver so that I could sit in the back with her and shoot the shit without having to pay attention to the road and directions.
By the time we're buckled in, Molly already has a destination in mind, and I admire her fortitude. Most people would have gotten in the car and stared out the window, waiting to be driven somewhere rather than taking the bull by the horn. She connects her navigation to the car, then adjusts the radio.
So resourceful.
“Do you need me to send a message to the pilot or anything?”
So thoughtful.
“Yes, actually, that would be great.”
We were able to charter a private jet, one owned by a friend in high places, and I give Molly my phone so she can shoot him a note. Let him know we are not rushing back to the plane as originally planned.
“It feels freeing to be spontaneous for once,” I muse. “Usually, every minute of every hour of every day is planned.”