Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Guilt twists my stomach. “Sorry. It’s bad, but if I joke about it, I can cope with it.”
“You ever feel like that, then you call me so I can drag you down these flights of stairs by your hair.” She slides her feet into her shoes and grabs her purse. “Oh, by the way, did you book the bachelorette party yet?”
I fight to stop my eyes from widening. “Yes,” I lie. “Almost.”
Dayton rolls her eyes and opens my door. “Book it, Liv. I get married in two months.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Family Woman.”
“Do you want me to Bridezilla your ass?”
“Honey, no one wants you to Bridezilla anything, but that doesn’t seem to stop you.”
She flips me the bird then follows it by blowing a kiss. “Goodbye. Love you. Be good.”
She shuts the door behind her before I can remind her that “be good” isn’t a phrase I understand. Unless it involves Tyler and his sexy demands—which are decidedly not classed as “good.” In fact, when I’m doing what he tells me to, I’m being both good and bad, which is quite the contradicting conundrum.
Shit. If I’m using big words, I’ve had far too much wine.
I glance at the bottle and decide that the remaining glass sitting in it won’t hurt me. I top my glass up to the rim and overfill it. Leaning forward, I slurp up a mouthful without moving the glass.
Classy chick, I am not.
I open the laptop and type in “bachelorette party venues.” Let it be noted that there’s no location on the end of the search. Aaron explicitly stated that I have no monetary budget for this. My only budget is her absolute happiness. This seems to be a goal we both share.
After sifting through several sites, which aren’t appealing in the slightest, I decide to tweak my search. I type in “West Coast spas” and hit enter. Dozens of websites come up, some classy, some casual, so I add “expensive” into the search bar.
Jesus. This is hard work already. Or maybe that’s the wine.
I filter through the search, clicking on endless websites before finally coming up with a short list. The clock blinks at me from the bottom corner of my screen, and despite it only being nine thirty, I can feel my eyelids growing heavy.
Yep, that’s definitely the wine.
I add all the ‘maybe’ venues into a folder on my bookmarks and shut the laptop down. Angus pads across the floor to me and stares at me woefully.
“I know, buddy. I know. The wine bottle is empty.”
His look turns annoyed. As annoyed as a cat can be, at least. In fact, I don’t think his expression has changed at all.
Maybe my cat just has perpetual resting bitch face.
With a sigh, I get up and put a couple handfuls of cat biscuits in his bowl. “I need to go to the store tomorrow, Lord Fussy-Ass!” I snap, dropping the box on the counter. Damn cat.
He sticks his tail in the air. Fuck you too, cat.
I lock the front door to the sound of my cell chirping on the table. I grab it. “Message? There is no—oh, shit!” I bring it to my ear. “Hello?”
A deep, rich laugh rumbles down the phone. “Hi to you, too.”
Warmth spreads through me at those four tiny words, simple but strong, and I smile. “Hi.”
“How much wine did you drink?”
“Not nearly as much as you think but more than we should have.” I pad through to my bedroom. “You okay?”
“Better now I’m talking to my bitch,” Tyler says, laughing quietly.
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” I climb beneath my covers and snuggle down.
“Oh, I’m sorry, baby girl. How are you?”
“Cold.”
“Why are you cold?”
“I might have forgotten to pay my electric bill. I have to do it tomorrow.”
He laughs. “Dammit, Liv. How do you forget that stuff?”
“I just… I forgot. It’s like you forgetting to pick your socks off the floor. Or put the toilet seat down.”
“That’s because I’m a male, not because I’m flighty. Leaving the toilet seat up is a territorial thing.”
“Oh, yes. I’ll make a note to ignore your territorial stake in my bathroom next time I fall down the fucking toilet.”
“You do that.” So much laughter is in his voice. Bastard.
I roll my eyes even though he can’t see me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking this conversation would be much more fun if I were there to shut you up.”
“I’m thinking I agree. Depending on your method of shutting me up, of course.”
“I can’t tell you in advance. It’s impulsive. You know that.”
“No, I’m the impulsive one in this relationship. You’re the planner one.”
“I like hearing you say that.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “What? That you’re a planner?”
“Don’t be difficult, you awkward bitch. You know what I mean.”
“Oh, yes. The relationship part. The thing that makes me your official bitch. I should get that on a badge. ‘Tyler Stone’s Bitch.’”