Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Yup. I made the right call in passing him over.
I just wish he hadn’t seen me pass him over. I have plenty of flaws, but generally rude isn’t on the list.
“So, you live in this neighborhood?” I ask brightly, going into full damage-control mode.
His storm-cloud eyes cut to mine, and for a second I feel something hot and intriguing pass through me, but I ignore it.
For an awful minute, I think he’s going to ignore me, but then he sighs and answers. “No. East Side. You?”
“A couple blocks that way.” I tilt my head in the direction of downtown. “What brings you over to the West Side?” This bar is decent. I’ve been here a handful of times. But only because it’s so convenient to both my apartment and office. It doesn’t have much to recommend it to someone not already in the neighborhood, especially in a town with about a billion bars and restaurants.
Before he can reply, the bartender comes over and gives me a bright smile. “Oh, hey! See, I knew he’d show.”
“What?” I ask, confused, until I realize she thinks that this guy is my blind date. “Oh, no. No no. No, no no. He isn’t my date.”
Then I let out a little laugh because the man sitting beside me is just about as far from Kris Powers as it’s possible to get.
The bartender makes a whoops face as she refills the guy’s water glass that I’d emptied, and then hightails it to the other end of the bar.
The man beside me leans in ever so slightly. “I don’t think you’ve made your lack of interest in me quite clear enough yet. Perhaps we could set up a sign of some sort? A not if he was the last man alive sort of message?”
I cringe and give him what I hope is a placating smile. “Listen, it’s not personal, it’s just . . .” I trail off, because there really is no way to tell someone they’re not your type.
“Don’t worry about it,” he cuts in.
“It’s nothing against you, it’s just—”
“Let me guess,” he says, turning fully towards me. “You prefer your dudes brawny and sulky? With bonus points if they’re flexing in their photo, or better yet, displaying that stupid crotch V.”
I choke on my wine. “Crotch V?”
“Different than a female crotch V,” he says, with a flash of wicked smile that disappears so quickly I think I’ve imagined it. “V-cut, I believe it’s called. You know what I’m talking about. Men who like to show off the shape wearing their gym shorts lower than necessary.”
I fiddle with one of the three studs in my ear and bite the inside of my lip, because I do know exactly what he’s talking about—the enticing V-cut groove running from the outer edge of a man’s abs down towards his . . .
Well, let’s just say I usually refer to the V-cut as dick lines.
I don’t tell Mr. Stormcloud this.
Nor do I mention that Kris Powers had a very nice V-cut, or how disappointed I am not to be seeing the apex of that V tonight.
“Uh huh,” he says knowingly, as though reading my thoughts.
“You know, if I can offer some friendly advice . . .” I start to say.
“I’d rather you did not.”
I continue, undeterred. “You seem awfully irritable. Perhaps, rather than obsessing about other men’s crotch Vs, you should care more about seeing a female crotch V. I find that such co-ed activities are instant mood boosters.”
He snorts and nabs a non-bleu-cheese olive off the silver cocktail pick with straight, even teeth. “No, thanks.”
My jaw drops open. “I wasn’t offering. I didn’t mean my crotch V.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Again. Just get a sign that you’re not interested.”
I sigh and set my wine aside. “Okay, let’s start over. I’m Mac.”
I extend my hand, and after a moment of hesitation, his closes around mine. Bigger and warmer than expected. “Thomas.”
“No nickname?” I prod. “Tom?”
He shakes his head.
“Tommy?”
He gives me a look.
“Come on,” I cajole with a smile. “What did your mom call you when you were little?”
“Thomas.”
Good Christ. “Well, Thomas. What’s your story? No, wait, I want to guess. New England born and bred. Yes?” I prod, when he doesn’t reply.
He gives me an irritated look. “Boston.”
“Ah ha. Which makes you a graduate of . . . Harvard?”
The guy practically smells like Ivy League.
“Dartmouth.”
“Same thing. And before that, you went to a prep school that required a uniform and a tie.” I don’t bother waiting for him to confirm this, I’m fairly confident. “Let’s see, what else? The oldest child.”
His eyes narrow, and I give him a gloating smile.
“And—you iron your underwear. Which are tighty-whities.” I say this to provoke him, but I confess, I’m the tiniest bit curious.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t take the bait, and I’m oddly disappointed when Thomas reaches for the billfold that’s been sitting in front of him, and he’s apparently already closed out, because he pulls out a thick, black credit card and tucks it back into his wallet.