Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“That’s too bad,” he says, those dark brows lifting suggestively.
I shove the bowl at him. “Here, have some chips.”
He hesitates. “Do you have any pretzels? I’m not really a potato chip person.”
“I’ve never met someone who didn’t like potato chips.”
“I guess that’s my oddity,” he says with a shrug.
“How about tortilla chips?” I ask.
“Perfect. Thanks. And I admire that you’re waiting for the right time. I had sex much too young, and if I could do things over, I’d wait longer.”
“’Til you were twenty-five?” I tease, pouring tortilla chips into another bowl.
“Maybe not that long.” His easygoing grin widens. “Sex is pretty awesome. Once you try it, you’ll like it. Or, once you do it a few times. It’s my understanding that women don’t always enjoy it right away, unless they’re with a guy who knows what he’s doing.”
I’ll bet he’s a guy who knows what he’s doing, especially with the way he was moving his body earlier. I’m curious about how young he was when he first had sex, but I’m afraid to know the answer.
“Don’t let anyone try to make you feel bad about your choices,” he says after eating a chip and taking another drink. “Everyone’s path is their own.”
“I agree.”
“By the way, I guess you know I’m Trevor, but I never got your name.”
“Autumn.”
He repeats it, and I like how it sounds when he says it. “I like that,” Trevor says. “Were you born in the fall?”
“Everyone assumes that, but no. My name makes no sense.” I reach for a tortilla chip from his bowl.
“It’s pretty, though. And so are you.”
I can barely look at him. Those brown eyes. “You don’t have to flirt with me just because you were paid to come here and strip,” I tell him.
His thick brows draw together. “That’s not why I’m flirting with you. And I’m just being honest. You are objectively very pretty. I find it hard to believe that men aren’t throwing themselves over your walls to try to date you.”
“Over my walls?”
He nods, reaching for another chip. “The walls you have up.”
“You just met me. What do you know about me having walls up?”
“Am I wrong?” he challenges.
I don’t have an answer for him. It’s not something I’ve thought about in that way before, but he may be right. I have, on occasion, put out “don’t talk to me” vibes when I’ve been around guys I wasn’t interested in.
“Did you eat dinner before you came?” I ask to change the subject. The small bowl I gave him is nearly empty already.
“No, I eat after I perform.” He pats the tight rippled muscles at his abdomen. “Don’t want to be bloated.”
I’m almost startled to realize that he’s still only wearing that little Speedo. Talking with him has been so easy and engaging that I’ve been somehow overlooking the fact that his gorgeous body is still on display. My eyes drift down toward the bulge between his legs, but I avert my gaze before letting myself study it, even though it’s fascinating.
“How did you come to be a stripper?” I ask.
“A friend of mine told me it was good money.”
“Do you like it?”
“It has its good points and bad points. Like any job.” When I nod, he says, “I don’t just do private events. I also perform at Club Red.”
“Oh, is that right?” The skin on my chest feels like I’m standing over a hot oven.
“Have you ever been there?” Trevor asks.
I shake my head. I’ve heard about the club. It’s right here on Four Points, but even though my job is off the island in Whitman, I’ve heard coworkers talking about it. Apparently, it’s a Magic Mike kind of thing with music and lots of choreographed numbers. The women who were talking about it sounded very impressed by what they saw there.
“Are you busy tomorrow night?”
Even though he asks me this right after telling me about the club, my silly mind thinks for a moment that he’s about to ask me out, and excitement bubbles in my chest at the prospect. He’s so easy to talk to, and so easy on the eyes. I definitely wouldn’t mind spending more time with him. But, of course, he isn’t asking me out.
When I shake my head, he says, “You should come to the club. Come see me dance. I mean … you already saw me dance here, but the stage show is a lot more fun.”
His enthusiasm seems genuine, and it makes me curious. When I heard the women at work talking about the club, I never considered it as a place I might go. It didn’t even fully register with me. I was setting up a new computer in a cubicle next to them, overheard their conversation, and didn’t think much about it at all.
But now I wonder if all of the men there are as good looking as Trevor. They probably have to be, to be hired as dancers, but it’s really hard to imagine the others measuring up to him.