Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Ethan turns to the curly-haired man behind the bar, who does a double take when he sees my guy friend. But just as quickly, the bartender slides into business, asking, “What can I get for you?”
“His number,” I mutter to Harlow, who nods big and long.
“Two mojitos,” Ethan says to the guy. “And an iced tea.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender says, then flashes an unnecessarily large and wholly clear smile at Ethan before he heads off to mix drinks.
I hum a naughty little tune then nudge my matinee idol friend with the ink on his arm. “And will mojitos be on you soon too?” I wiggle my brows at the bartender.
Ethan shakes his head, but I think he’s redirecting rather than denying. “Don’t distract us.” He pats the stool between him and Harlow. “Sit your ass down. And tell us a story. Leave no item of clothing undone, no bed sheet unturned, no condom unused. I want the full Monty story.”
“I second what he said,” Harlow says. “And start now because we’ve got two hours until Ethan’s set.”
Ethan stabs the bar with his finger. “Story time. Now. Spare no details.”
The details are everything.
The details will feed my fantasies for a long time.
“He’s a venture capitalist. He’s got this whole intense, dominant charm and he’s also a great listener,” I say, then pause to set up my final point. “And he walked me to my gate this morning. At the airport. He kissed me goodbye right before I boarded my plane.”
Ethan whistles in appreciation. Harlow claps.
So I give them a little more. “He was dirty and dreamy and demanding and also, obsessed with my pleasure. And he told me if he lived in New York, he would’ve taken me out tonight. He even said he’ll be here later this year.”
Harlow’s eyes widen with intrigue. “So you are going to see this guy again?”
My heart does a loop-the-loop. Stupid, hopeful organ. I shake my head, making light of it. “It’s just something he said. I’m not going to think about whether he’s coming here again. I’m not going to look him up. And I’m not going to fantasize about an uncertain future,” I say, then I glimpse a familiar face by the door when a striking brunette walks in alongside a busty redhead.
“It’s our cousins,” I say brightly, using the nickname we gave Jules and Camden.
Harlow turns and waves at Jules Marley. The brunette works with Harlow’s boyfriend, Bridger. She’s become his right-hand woman helping him run his new TV production company, and she’s sharp as an eagle. Next, Harlow waves to Camden, Jules’s friend.
More than a year ago, the three of us ran into Jules and Camden at a dance club, and Harlow pulled them into our spot on the dance floor, where we grooved the night away to pulsing music in a big group of arms and limbs and drinks.
So we annexed them into our group. I also convinced Jules and Camden to take Krav Maga with me, so they join me occasionally at the gym.
While the three of us—Ethan, Harlow, and me—will probably always be like long-lost siblings, Jules and Camden feel like cousins we just discovered.
When Jules, decked out in jeans and a shiny black spaghetti-strap top that shows off her creamy skin, curves, and strong arms, joins us, she asks, “Did we miss all the good stuff? If so, will you recap the juiciest deets?”
Yeah, she’s definitely become part of our family. “Layla had an excellent—wink, wink—time in Miami,” Harlow offers.
I just shrug impishly, owning the fuck out of my time there.
Jules’s eyes twinkle. Camden’s green eyes brighten in obvious curiosity as she asks, “I’m gonna need more. How excellent, exactly?”
Ethan clears his throat. “A quartet of excellent.”
“Damn, Layla,” Jules says, impressed.
“Lucky bitch,” Camden chimes in.
We all crack up, then I tell the story again, and I don’t mind sharing the details of a night I’ll never regret.
Because that’s what it was—one wonderful night under the sultry Miami sky.
Later, as my friends and I head to Rebel Beat to rock out to Ethan’s music from the front row, I do my best to put those details in the past and move forward into my future here in New York.
My mother is sweating.
It’s a rare sight, but the woman plays like an absolute beast on the tennis court.
On the other side of the net, I’m tempted to shout, “Go, Anna,” but she’d deliver a withering smile and tell me to focus on the match.
But we’ve been playing for too many points, too many games, just far too long, so even though I was raised to be a tennis beast too, when she serves the next ball I maybe, possibly, deliberately stretch my arm too far and miss it.
Oops.
It rolls with a thud to the edge of the court.
“Damn,” I mutter, dropping my shoulders. Like this is the worst fate ever.