Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
You dog, quit it.
“Not quite,” I say.
I made a mistake coming here with Greer.
A big fucking mistake.
Is it too late to run?
Or can I muscle through the next seventy-two hours and hope to God my right hand will be enough to keep me satisfied? Enough to keep me from pouncing on my very good friend’s very sexy little sister?
“Should we go dancing now?” she asks.
Christ. “I don’t dance.”
Her eyes flash with mischief. “You did when you were skating.”
“You danced while you were skating. I just skated.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms. “But you do sing. The concierge said there’s a bonfire tonight with live music over by the main house. Apparently one of the owners plays a mean guitar. Maybe he can play some Adele for us.”
I see it: Greer swaying her hips to the music. Lifting her arms. She knows every word to the song. Her hair falls over the back of her neck the way it did at the roller rink. I brush it aside. Only this time I lean in and kiss her there. The spot where spine and neck meet.
“I’m—I have—tired,” I stammer. “I’m tired. I’m going to pass.”
Greer frowns. My heart falls. “Please? We can work off some of this food. We had so much fun with the DJ at Kate’s.”
That’s exactly the problem. Having fun with Greer keeps making me think about fucking Greer.
I do not fuck girls who want something I can’t give them.
I don’t fuck around with girls anymore, period. I’m moving on. Giving an appropriate relationship a chance.
I’m not going to use sex as a crutch anymore. A distraction.
Fucking a twenty-three-year-old is the most distracting, least appropriate thing I can think of.
“Don’t make me pull the I-need-this card,” she continues. “Because I really do need to blow off some steam this weekend.”
My grip is so tight on my glass I’m shocked it hasn’t shattered. “Shameless.”
She grins, the edges of her eyes creasing. “Ten bucks says I can get you to shake your ass.”
“No.”
“Yes.” She rises, grabs her coat before I can. “I can’t wait to see what a terrible dancer you are.”
That’s how I find myself standing in front of a bonfire, a hot apple cider in hand. I decided against the spiked version the bartender offered. Alcohol only seems to make this inconvenient boner for Greer worse.
She also stuck to the virgin cider. Her palms are wrapped around her cup as she surveys the crowd. There are a lot of people here for a chilly Friday night in May. The temperature in the mountains is a solid ten to twenty degrees cooler than in Charlotte.
They’re young-ish people. A little older than Greer, a little younger than me. The desk attendant at check-in told us there’s a wedding at the resort this weekend. I imagine the men and women gathered in front of the nearby stage are in the wedding party.
I watch them hug. Laugh. Several are wearing wedding bands.
Couple friends, then. It’s a cool thing when a friend finds a significant other who becomes a friend too. I’ve always been jealous of my buddies who have paired off with wives who become tight. It’s probably fun, being able to hang together. Travel together too.
I glance at Greer. How fucking weird would it be if I paired off with her? What mutual friends would we have? The chasm between our ages would mean we have two totally different groups of friends in two totally different stages of life.
Greer is just starting out. I’m established. So are all my friends. Theo and Nora are having a baby, for Christ’s sake.
Reason number eight hundred why she and I are not meant to be.
Why I need to keep my hands off her.
I promised Mom and Dad I’d see Margaux again anyway. I haven’t been able to make myself reach out to her again, telling my parents I’ve been too busy with work. But I have to make a second date happen.
I’m going to make it happen. I just need to get through this weekend first.
A guy with a guitar appears on stage and says hello into the microphone. The crowd erupts in hoots and hollers. I recognize him. Hank Beauregard. He’s a former tight end for Carolina’s pro football team, and a member of the very wealthy family that owns Blue Mountain Farm.
A pretty woman with long brown hair comes on stage to hand him a beer. He kisses her. The microphone catches his thanks, baby.
“Aw.” Greer tilts her head. “How sweet are they?”
Not as sweet as you.
Hank begins his set with a cover of The Rolling Stones, “Waiting on A Friend”. It’s admittedly a great song. The perfect start for a concert under the stars, the crisp, cozy scent of burning wood floating in the air.
I look over at Greer. She doesn’t know the lyrics—at least she’s not signing along—but she is smiling. Bobbing her head a little bit. Then swaying her hips.