Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
I wave a hand at the elaborate party I expertly planned. “Crush me? Dude, look around. I owned you tonight.”
Bailey smirks. “Keep telling yourself that.”
He saunters off, and Annika and I stare at his retreating back for a moment. His sinewy muscles flex with each step he takes, and…fine, maybe his ass looks damn good in those snug blue trunks.
Beside me, Annika sighs softly. “That guy might be a prick, but he is built.”
I tweak a strand of her hair. “Don’t get any ideas. Neither one of us will be fucking him.”
Her head tips in surprise, and it takes a moment for me to realize that she’s startled by the smoothness of my words, how casually—and easily—I’d just spoken about sleeping with a dude.
One delicate eyebrow lifts up slowly. “Hmmm. You really have been thinking hard about this birthday request…” She hesitates. “Maybe we should go upstairs and do some warmups.”
“Warmups?”
“Familiar drills,” she says, pinching my ass. “Just to limber up before the big event. We can’t go into the big game cold.”
I kiss her neck. “I think I take your meaning. Okay, let’s go. The coach needs you to blow his whistle.”
Annika giggles against my chest, and then I turn her toward the exit and we head upstairs.
Et tu, Judd?
Keaton
Bailey’s party is on Sunday night.
No, that’s not the start of a bad joke—Luke Bailey is the joke. Because…
Who. The. Hell. Plans a party. On a Sunday night?
And I haven’t even gotten to the punch line yet. Not only has Bailey scheduled his Dance-off event for Sunday (two nights after the dopest bash, courtesy of yours truly), it’s not even a real party. It’s a dinner. And he didn’t let us invite guests.
Yeah… I’ve got the presidency in the bag.
Judd and I exchange an amused look as we take our seats. The dining room isn’t big enough to seat all the brothers. So Bailey has set up long rented tables in the living room. And while there’s enough seating for everyone, it’s not exactly the roomiest of setups.
“Sweet sausage fest,” Judd cracks to Bailey.
Luke just winks. He’s clad in a dark-blue dress shirt, with a blazer over it, and crisp trousers. He requested that we all show up in semi-formal wear—suits, dinner jackets, the whole shebang. So we’re crammed like sardines at this dinner table, dressed like a group of young Republicans. Par-tay.
As Bailey settles at the head of the table, I notice a few other dudes sharing glances. Looks like my opponent isn’t scoring any points with his constituents. I literally brought the beach to Darby in the middle of winter. He planned a dinner party.
Checkmate.
“Two-buck Chuck?” Owen gripes loudly, reaching for one of the wine bottles on the table. “You’re seriously serving us this shit? You couldn’t spring for something better?”
Once again, Luke appears unfazed by the criticism. “Best I could do on the budget we were given.” He gives a small shrug. “And I’m not serving you anything. The catering staff’s got that part handled.”
As if on cue, the door separating the dining room from the living room swings open, and two pretty blondes saunter out. They’re followed by two brunettes wielding trays of hors d’oeuvres.
“Oh,” Owen blurts out.
I’m not sure if he’s responding to Bailey or voicing his surprise, which only lingers in his expression for a nanosecond before his eyes darken with appreciation.
The four chicks are gorgeous, greeting everyone with dazzling smiles. Two of them begin pouring wine into each brother’s glass. The other two—no, make that four. Four hot girls are now serving delicious-looking finger foods, while every dude in the room looks on in awe. Even Dan, who isn’t into chicks, seems intrigued by our servers.
I furrow my brow, shooting Bailey a what-are-you-up-to look, but he offers another careless shrug. Then he flashes that arrogant grin at a dark-haired bombshell whose tits are so huge they’re actually straining against the front of her white button-down.
All six—oh for fuck’s sake, make that eight. Eight waitresses are now sashaying around the tables, smiling as they serve us. All of them wear identical uniforms: white shirts tucked into short, black skirts. And they’re all in black heels, some of which seem way too high for caterers. But as Annika always tells me, high heels belong at any occasion.
My Alpha Delt brothers are digging into the appetizers. I slide a garlic shrimp off its little skewer and pop it into my mouth. Oh, that’s good. Bailey might’ve sprung for cheap wine, but he did a decent job with the apps.
With that said, there’s no way a dinner party is going to top my beach party. I don’t care if this shrimp was flown in from the Gulf and prepared by Thomas Keller. Beach trumps dinner.
“Mmmmfhfhg,” Judd mumbles as he stuffs a cheese ball in his mouth. He’s trying to talk even as he keeps chomping.