Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
The girl from the bar with the retro vibe and body built for sin is sitting two tables away.
In the span of an hour, she’s fucked up my entire life program. And all I want to do is end this nightmare and take her back to my place to cook her fucking pancakes.
That’s not all I want to do, but there’s something about her that makes me want to do something simple for her. Sweet. Syrup and chocolate chips. Whipped cream and strawberries.
And not all necessarily on the pancakes.
“Can I clear your plate?” the waitress asks the nightmare sitting across from me, and our server deserves a fucking medal for the restraint she’s shown dealing with Caroline.
I nod a silent thank you for her calm politeness.
“Does it look like I’m done eating?” Caroline snaps, then rolls her eyes, and her fake lashes do this weird tug on her upper lids. Creepy as fuck.
“Is that a yes?” the waitress replies as I rub my hands on the napkin in my lap, feeling the half-hard thickness of my johnson that is focused on the way-too-young-for-me morsel two tables over.
And the lukewarm piece of shit sitting with her.
“How rude are you?” Caroline flutters a dismissive hand toward the waitress, then purses her lips and leans toward me. “I know it’s, like, impossible to find good help these days, but, like, where did they find this one? IHOP? Give me a break.”
She’s the full pain in the ass package. I mean, on top of everything else, she insults IHOP. I won’t be making her any pancakes, that’s for sure.
I wave off the waitress before I lose my cool and tear into this outrageous bitch.
“I mean,” she goes on, “am I right, or am I right? She’s, like, the worst. I eat in the best places in this city and—”
“Like… Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, my insides feeling like they’re being compressed under high pressure. I slam my palm into the table, making the flat wear clatter on the porcelain plates and poor, dear Caroline jumps like a fucking tit mouse. “She’s been nothing but fucking polite with you.”
And you’re fucking insufferable, I want to say. But it’s not just that. I’ve dealt with assholes before. I deal with them pretty much every day. I am a professional asshole wrangler. But right now, she’s keeping me from doing what I want to do, which is to drag the dark-haired, red dress-wearing pinup princess from her table and have my way with her.
And her fucking pancakes.
Caroline looks like I just slapped her. She blinks three times in quick succession. “Excuse me?”
I click my tongue against my teeth and throw down my napkin, pushing back my chair.
“You’re excused.”
Caroline has split, and I’m at the bar now, eavesdropping hard core, watching Sweet Cheeks eat a panna cotta so slowly that there’s a real possibility I’m going to panna-fucking-cotta in my pants.
The khaki wearing monotone guy she’s with has done 98% of the talking. I know two things: it’s a first date and he’s a total dud.
It’s gonna be the last date as well, whether she knows it yet or not, because the idea of her on a date with anyone other than me has me ready to yank this guy’s testicles from his body and shove them up his ass.
That is, if he has testicles. I have my doubts, and if he does, he doesn’t deserve them.
If he so much as touches her, I’m going to lose my shit. Full-on, alpha-male, five-o’clock-breaking-news style.
I swallow a shot of Patron, letting the burn scald my throat, then move around the entryway of the dining area and I fucking swear I catch a hint of her strawberries and cream scent.
Khaki man is talking louder, more demanding, and I sink my teeth into my cheek.
“I mean, this is a nice dinner I’m buying you.” He leans back, rubbing his hands on top of his thighs. “The least you could have done is put in some real effort.”
The pretty brunette’s jaw drops and her mouth and those red lips should have sonnets written about them.
God, even her fucking lipstick makes me hard.
“Effort?” She screws up one side of her face and scratches her temple. “You want to talk to me about effort?”
“When I agreed to take you out, you picked the place. I assumed you would…” He makes a disgusted gesture with his hand toward where she sits. “Be appreciative. At least try to look like you’re going to give me something that makes it worth the price of your meal. That dress is total thrift store…it’s something my grandmother would wear.”
Her eyes flash, and her cheeks turn up the volume from pink to angry red.
“Then your grandmother must be one hot piece of ass,” she barks, and I snort, but she’s not done. “You’re a total piece of shit, you know that? If this place wasn’t so nice, and the food so good, you’d be wearing this panna cotta all over your hillbilly button down. NASCAR? NASCAR? Really?”