Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
In the marked pause, Misty jumped in without any prompting, “I’m seeing someone.”
As her bright gaze held mine, I felt a stitch of discomfort in my chest. I wasn’t jealous. That’s not how I rolled. But I’d be lying if the look on her face didn’t needle me because for the first time since I’d met her eight years ago, Misty looked…vulnerable. She’d never looked that way over me. And that’s when the lightbulb went on. There went any chance of a future hookup.
“You really like this guy.” No need for questions when I could see it for myself.
Her brows drew together. Misty had never liked being such an easy read. “What makes you say that?”
I shrugged, the answer a foregone conclusion. “Your face.”
Exhaling roughly, she leaned back against the counter of the bar with her hands tucked under her ass. The black tank top she wore showcased her athletic biceps, her strong thighs stretched taut her gray jeans. Misty had sex appeal in spades. “I guess so.”
“Don’t look so happy,” I teased, and chuckled when a dishtowel hit me in the face. She smiled awkwardly, reluctant to accept this strange new condition.
At the opposite end of the bar, a new customer motioned for service and we both glanced over. “Gimme five,” she said.
“Take ten,” I told her.
As soon as Misty walked away, I stole another glance over my shoulder. Wearing a severe black coat over an equally severe black suit, my soon-to-be wife stood out like a sore thumb. Nobody in Jackson Hole wore suits unless they were going to a funeral. And, hey, it wasn’t too far from the truth. You could say the death of my carefully constructed life was certainly cause for one. I was certainly in mourning.
The physical changes were noticeable. The Swiss milk maid thing she had going on a decade ago had transformed into cold elegance, her beauty unapproachable. Not a drop of sex appeal to speak of. She’d lost the fullness to her cheeks, highlighting sculpted cheekbones and a stubborn chin. It made me curious to find out if her personality had changed just as notably––softened, with any hope––then reminded myself that curiosity could kill, not to stir shit up or meet the same fate as the cat.
The fact remained that she hadn’t cracked a semblance of a smile since walking through the sliding glass doors, her expression blank and faraway. So still a major buzzkill one would have to determine. For a fraction of a second, I even considered packing up my truck, loading the dogs, and tearing out of town.
She crossed the lobby on her way to the elevators, stride assertive––like the rest of her. An image of her goose-stepping crossed my mind and I had to swallow the urge to laugh. The different shades of gold of her neatly parted blonde hair caught the overhead flickering light of the chandelier. Damn shame that a woman so beautiful could have such an awful personality.
Oblivious to being watched, she marched past me with her small bag in tow, the heels of her Manolo Blahniks click, click, clicking annoyingly against the marble flooring. Each one a stab to the sac. I’d give her a few minutes before knocking on her door. I’d be nice about it. But that’s all I’d be nice about. Time to put the plan in motion.
Sydney
A loud banging on the hotel room door jolted me out of bed. One minute I was lying spread eagle in my fluffy hotel robe, staring at the ceiling while contemplating the lunacy of my life choices––specifically my impending marriage––and the next I was practically hanging by my short fingernails from the pickled oak beams on the ceiling.
“Who is it?” I called out, clutching the top of my robe closed in a false sense of security. Dashing to the door, all I could see through the view hole was a blue and white checkered shirt.
The cowboy? Had he followed me up and I hadn’t noticed? How creepy. I looked again and this time a dark blue eye peered back…surrounded by a set of thick paintbrush black lashes. Oh. My stomach sank. I knew those lashes. Those lashes left an impression on a woman.
“Damn,” slipped out. On the tail end of it, a wince. Not even a night’s reprieve. “What do you want, Scott?”
A low masculine chuckle seeped through the door. “Let me in, wife.”
I cringed. I physically cringed at the sound of his husky voice. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t possibly go through with it. Within a week, I’d end up on The First 48 for making pie out of my new groom.
“Go away. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“We need to talk now, Sydney.”
“I’m tired. Tomorrow.”
A sigh. “Please.”
Please? I would’ve bet good money that Scott’s vocabulary did not extend that far. And yet I’d heard it distinctly.