Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Green eyes too green for their own good sparkle down at me forcing me to push my thighs together in the most unobvious way I possibly can.
Lord have mercy on my poor Mrs. Robinson soul.
The guy is at least ten years younger and ten times dreamier than anyone else I’ve ever met.
He’s the type of beautiful man that talent agents give their card to with a cheeky “if you ever think about modeling, call me”. The type that gets on set as an extra yet somehow ends up in a speaking role and trending the day after the movie is out. His light brown skin – so light people often question what his background is until they hear him speak – is fucking flawless. We’re talking, please tell me your secret nighttime moisturizing routine type of perfect. Perhaps it’s because he’s still young and hopeful and stressless without the weight of a mortgage or maybe it’s simply that he takes great care of himself. All of himself. It’s easy to see he’s not allergic to the gym by the way his biceps bulge in his white waiter shirt, the same shirt that would be so easy to rip off and listen to the buttons clink across the ground as I drag a finger down the six pack, I know in my horniest of hearts he’s working with.
Or maybe it’s an eight pack?
Twelve?
Sixteen…?
Is a sixteen pack a real thing or are my underworked lady parts getting the better of me again?
Nonetheless, whatever he’s packing under that material, is chiseled, but it isn’t what gets to me the most, and not just because I don’t know if it’s really there or not. No. What I love most about him next to his Irish accent – which is from him living his first few years of life there according to a conversation we had when we first met – is his smile. God help me, when the man smiles, I not only forget what I’m ordering, where I came from, what I’m doing with my life, but my own fucking name.
He smiles – just like he is now – and it rewires my soul.
This I know is not good.
Not good at all.
He’s just a boy still trying to figure out how to be a man, and I’m a full-fledged woman trying to figure out how not to die the sad, old, lonely hermit who has more alpacas than friends.
And I know I’m headed that fucking direction.
I’ve even started looking at the cost to get my first one.
I also like the name Al for him.
It’s far from creative, but I never once mentioned creative being my strong suit.
“You are even more stunning than I bloody remember,” Tate compliments while adjusting my water glass on the table. Once he’s finished, he sets his green gaze on me. “Daniel running late again?”
“Um…,” my ass uncomfortably wiggles in the seat, “Daniel won’t be coming.”
“Oh.”
“Like ever again.”
“Deceased?” His dark eyebrows launch into the air. “But he was so young.”
Way to go, Harper. Way to spook the child. It’s not Halloween! That’s not okay!
“Divorced,” I somehow manage to fumble out with an embarrassed face scrunch. “We got a divorce a couple years ago. We don’t date anymore. Like we have dinner and hang out and stuff sometimes but like he’s not – he won’t be – this isn’t a meal with him.”
He slowly nods his understanding. “Is that the reason I haven’t seen you in far too long?”
“You mean us.”
“No, I mean you.”
The corner of Tate’s mouth curls upward, and my fingers twitch to reach out and touch it. To caress the cockiness, he exudes and curl his confidence around my freshly manicured finger.
Ah, to be young.
And unscathed.
And unfucked in the ass by the masochist that is life.
“Flirting won’t make me tip you more,” I lie on a sly smile.
“I’d rather you leave me your number than a tip,” Tate fires back, hands being folded behind his back.
Disbelief has me quietly croaking, “What?!”
Laughter – a sound so sweet, so intoxicating that the glass of Moscato I was planning to order now seems unnecessary – pours out of him prior to another smug smirk. “Is the question in regard to wanting your number more than a tip or to me wanting your number at all?”
“That one.”
The too bright for indoor lighting grin remains. “Well, I need your number in order to properly ask you out.”
“Out where?”
“On a date is the idea.”
“Why…why…why would you be,” my flailing fingers can’t stop throwing up what look like gang signs, “doing that? Why would you…want to? Did you lose a bet with someone?”
“No.”
“Desperation of a dry spell?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why…,” the spoken spiraling continues out of control, “why is that…something you think you want?”
“I know I want it.”
Cripes, that sounds sinfully sexy with his accent.