Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“The answer is still no.”
I groan. “Come on. I want to go out on something big. Something fun. Something wild that I’ll remember while I’m taking vitamins and going to bed before ten.”
Ella reaches for her water. “Fine. But let's find something else. Red doesn’t suit your skin tone.”
“Like what? I’m not getting anything pierced, and I don’t think I’m ready to commit to a tattoo.”
“You’ve been wanting a tattoo since the day I met you. As a matter of fact, weren’t you looking at tattoos when I brought over those cookies?”
I laugh. “Yes. But it’s so permanent. What if I don’t want it next week?”
She rolls her eyes.
“What else is there?” I ask. “Let’s think.”
“Well, you could find a man with money and get a quickie wedding on the Strip.”
I laugh again, turning over onto my stomach. “At this point, that’s the only way I’ll get married—inebriated and to a stranger.” The guys I date aren’t marriage material. I’ll probably be alone forever at this rate.
“Hey, people find love in all sorts of ways.”
“True, but the odds that I’ll find a marry-able man in the next few hours is incredibly low.” I fold my arms under my head. “In lieu of sexy strangers with an engagement ring in their pocket, what else do you suggest?”
She taps a finger to her lips. “We could go to a show tonight. A male striptease or something like that. It might be a way to get your juices flowing—”
“Ew!”
“While lacking permanence. Then just see where the night takes us. Be free-spirited.”
“You just want to go because it’s one more way to needle Brock.”
Her grin is full of mischief. “So? What’s your point?”
Ella and my brother have been a thing for almost two years. What kind of thing? I’m afraid to label it, although I’m fairly certain they’re exclusive without declaring exclusivity.
On the one hand, Ella is a lot to handle. She’s smart, opinionated, and doesn’t need a man—and she knows it. She also has a propensity to make decisions and weigh the risks after. That drives Brock nuts.
On the other hand, dating Brock would be a nightmare. Women throw themselves at him wherever he goes. Men stop him for autographs and to man-swoon over him. And during the season, he’s focused and mostly unavailable. That doesn’t always work for Ella.
I watch this back-and-forth and vow never to get into a relationship with a player—an athlete or otherwise. Again. I’ve done that before, and it didn’t end well.
“I’m taking it you two are still fighting,” I say.
“We aren’t fighting. There’s nothing to fight about.” She lifts her chin to the sky. “I’m right, and he’s wrong. That’s all there is to it.”
“I agree. You’re right this time.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re damn right I’m right. I’m not putting up with him taking off to Miami with his friends and not even mentioning our anniversary.”
“How can you have an anniversary if you aren’t in an official relationship?” I snicker. “Isn’t that what you always tell me? That you aren’t in an official relationship with him?”
She waves a hand through the air, dismissing my question. “It’s a prelationship, but that doesn’t change anything in this circumstance.”
“A what?”
“A prelationship. The formative stage where boundaries and expectations are established so you can determine if the other person is willing to abide by them.” She pauses. “Brock isn’t.”
I roll my eyes and let it go. They’ll settle this before Brock returns from Miami and we’re home from Vegas. I’ve seen it too many times to count.
“Then fine,” I say, sitting up. “Let’s go to a show. But if my brother asks whose idea it was, I’m not taking the blame.”
“Tell him it was mine. I want him to know. A little competition never hurt anyone.”
“Competition for your non-boyfriend?” I ask, grinning.
“Precisely.”
I shake my head as a bead of sweat trickles down my face. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “I’m ready to go in and grab a shower.”
“And I need to make reservations for dinner.” She sits up, slipping on her flip-flops. “You owe me, you know.”
“What do I owe you for?”
“For depriving me of my right as your best friend to throw you the most outrageous, amazing birthday party that Nashville has ever seen.” She stuffs her water bottle in her bag. “I’m known in certain circles as the girl who throws the best bashes. I can only wonder what everyone is thinking about this.”
I laugh at her ridiculousness, slipping my cover-up over my head. “You’ve thrown me a huge birthday party every year I’ve known you. You can miss this one. It won’t hurt.”
She frowns. “Maybe it won’t hurt you, but it pains me. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“You’ll survive.”
I drop my phone, towel, and water bottle into my bag. I skim the area around me to ensure I have everything.