Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
She smiles wide and leans back cockily in her seat. “Wasn’t my first time at the rink. I’ve got a few years on you, Baby Einstein.”
“Calm down, Golden Curls.”
“We both know I’m shaved as fuck down there.”
Arrogance doesn’t hesitate to appear in my smirk. “We do both know that.”
The realization she walked right into the remark has her nose scrunching in both irritation and amusement.
What can I say?
When I’m not so fucking nervous, I can pour with the best of ‘em.
“Look, Harlow, I’m not gonna put up a fight about the paperwork.” An innocent shrug fills the short stretch of silence. “I get it. That was some fun shit that turned into went a little too far shit. It happens. Especially in fucking Vegas. I’ll sign whatever divorce papers and the DNA-”
“NDA.”
“-you need me to. Plus, you can keep the settlement cash. I don’t need it.”
“I think you do. You still sleep on a futon like the frat child you clearly are.”
Laughing at her jab naturally occurs and hearing the sound seems to get her smiling wider and wider until she can’t help but join in. And it’s the sight of Harlow’s head tossed all the way back and full lips carelessly parted as the rest of her arches into the humor that convinces me to do what I came here to do.
Persuade her to give this shit a real shot.
“While I don’t want your money, Cougar Town,” the reference receives another tickled snicker, “I do wanna have dinner with you. You know. Sober this time.”
“Yeah, when we met, I was—truthfully—on my Billy Bob shit.”
Perplexity pumps through my expression as much as my tone. “Billy Bob shit?”
“You’ve never seen the movie Varsity Blues?”
“No.”
“Ugh,” she sneers in what feels like actual disgust, “there’s this whole scene where Billy Bob pukes in a washing machine and then resumes drinking. That was me that night except I didn’t puke in a washing machine but the kitchen sink. And I wasn’t drinking in victory but in dejection. However, regardless of whatever my reasoning was for irresponsibly going twelve rounds with my liver, there is no excuse for you not having seen one of my favorite football films of all times.”
The unsuspected scolding causes new rounds of chuckles from both of us to begin.
“What are you gonna say next? That you’ve never seen The Mighty Ducks?”
“I haven’t.”
“Get out of my office,” she points, still laughing.
“How about I sign the papers now, and we go to dinner tonight instead? Maybe watch The Mighty Ducks for dessert?”
Mirth in Harlow’s demeanor is noticeably replaced by apprehension. “Brendan-”
“I like you,” I bluntly state at the same time I scoot to the edge of the seat to rest my elbows on her desk. “I think you’re fun. And know that we have fun together—even if you can’t remember how much. And I get it. I’m a lot younger than you. I probably don’t have as much to offer as other dudes that are closer to your age than mine. And I’m sure you have all your shit together-”
“All my shit together?” Humor hops its way back into her gaze as her body physically mirrors mine. “Are you fucking kidding? I’m thirty-seven, still don’t understand the difference between pots and pans, religiously live in sports bras, and got knocked up by a stranger during a bender that was supposed to help me cope with the death of the one person on this fucking planet I knew without a doubt loved me while avoiding the one person I know is going to try to weasel her way into more money than she was left in the will.” She offers me a slightly off-center smile. “Don’t get it twisted, Tommy Pickles. Just because I sleep in a grown-up bed doesn’t mean I have all my skates laced up.”
Blowing past the reference I don’t understand is insanely easy thanks to the leak of information I misheard.
Or…at least think I misheard.
“Wait, did you say that you’re knocked up?”
The question unsuspectingly paralyzes her in place.
Which means she did say it.
Which means I need more information.
Fucking.
Now.
“Were you…” my index finger rolls around in the air to mark where the words I can’t form should go, “when we…” the action is more frantically done the second time, “in Vegas?”
Harlow folds her fingers together, drops her head forward on a heavy sigh, and shakes it left to right.
Left to right.
Left to fucking right.
“H-h-h-have you um-” There’s no stopping myself from being cut off courtesy of my hand lightly slapping the side of my face in hopes of waking up from what can only be labeled a jet lag induced daymare. “Anyone…else…since…?”
She doesn’t bother meeting my gaze.
She simply allows her dipped head to duplicate the previous actions.
“So, uh…” the volume of my voice lowers, “what um…what you’re saying…is…” it morphs into a tone made mainly of air, “it’s-”