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)
I don’t know why I expected her to say anything remotely kind to me at the event after the funeral. It wasn’t like the individual who had the biggest hand in raising me, guiding me, inspiring me to be the very person I’ve become had basically just fucking died. Of course, that was absolutely the most acceptable time to tell me that the Tuna Tartare on crackers—which I personally picked to be served—was a bit of a faux pas considering most of the attendees were low-class athletes and even lower-class wives.
Yeah.
Birthed by a total fucking winner.
The MVP of twat waffles.
Cautiously, I watch as a head full of messy dark brown hair emerges from beneath the stark white sheets right before a rather well sculpted face, I vaguely remember meeting, does the same. My stare stays planted on him, bracing myself for the inevitable eye-opening sequence of events that will start with showing me what color his are and end with an awkward fumbling regarding sex I can’t remember from the previous night, yet it doesn’t happen.
In fact…nothing happens.
He merely continues to heavily breathe still knocked out by whatever properly took him down.
It’s probably wrong to hope it was me and not the tequila, huh?
Shit.
Did we have tequila?
The throbbing increases in severity causing me to release a low groan.
Yup. It was probably tequila. Tequila has this way of making sure I never remember anything.
Ugh. Fuck. Me.
Do I really want to remember anything?
My gaze sweeps the golden, sand skinned stranger once more noting first the pierced right eyebrow and next the impressively light scruff littered along his cut jawline. His lips, which are thinner than I typically like—I mean who doesn’t want a thick pair pressed between their thighs—are for some reason impossible to look away from. Almost…irresistible. Almost like my subconscious is registering or remembering sensations my conscious can’t. Temptation to gently touch the rather pale pair is unexpectedly scared away by what has to be banging on a door.
The first important question is which door.
There are like fifty in this fucking suite.
And the next—and probably more important—question is who is doing that banging?
It better not be fucking housekeeping.
They’re not supposed knock like we’re on fucking Cops.
Sliding out of the king-size bed is carefully done to prevent waking the man beside me as well as to keep from heaving all over where I was previously sleeping due to moving too fast. My new standing status, however, immediately reveals what isn’t any sort of actual shock.
I’m naked.
And the cover I’ve accidentally dragged down to right above dick level informs me that so is he.
You know what?
Sloppy, drunken, Vegas sex is probably another absolutely normal thing for a grief-stricken, thirty-seven-year-old woman to do.
Uh-huh.
That’s right.
This is the playbook I’m going to keep using until it gets me a fucking win.
My own series of head coach mantras, if you will.
Like “we’ll get ‘em next season, boys” or “you’re a good fucking team, they’re just a little better”.
That bullshit.
If everyone is always better than you then that means you fucking suck as a team.
Grow a pair, McTeer!
Tell them what useless fucks they are and make some goddamn line changes!
Forfuckssake, I can’t wait to fire him.
Pretty much had a couple shots cheering to that last night.
Okay.
I assume I did.
The knocking—if we’re really not going to call that shit bongo banging—suddenly gets more aggressive with each passing second pushing me to scramble out of the room, wrapping the comforter around my toned frame like a towel in the process.
It’s an unexpected long trek down the adjacent hallway and passing closed doors where undergarments are hanging from the doorknobs has me cringing in shame.
Okay, so, only that thong is mine.
Whose bra was that?
Did Margot finally let loose, and allow her titties to fly?!
Did my bestie finally live a little, and I wasn’t even sober enough to fucking remember it?!
Stumbling through the wrecked living room to the front door includes tripping over the long bed piece and maneuvering around oddly rearranged furniture that I feel tells a story about our adventures last night that I don’t want to hear.
Mainly because we’re much too old to be playing the Floor is Lava.
But I do fucking dominate at those games.
I’m graceful as fuck.
Being raised in the rink is definitely the reason for that shit.
Unhooking the top lock, meant to be the extra security measure to keep people out, is swiftly followed by me swinging the door open to unveil the Dave Grohl tribute drummer to be none other than the very assistant who I was hoping was the owner of the red, lacy bra I passed.
Should’ve known better.
She’s definitely more of an all undergarments are best in beige type of person.
Margot’s round, taupe colored face tilts disapprovingly to one side. “Where are your clothes?”
Unable to lie to her because I’ve never been able to lie to her, I merely answer on an innocent shrug. “No fucking clue.”