Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“What war?” Jess asks in confusion.
I said that aloud?
“Sweden and Ireland,” I answer. “Were they allies in WW One and/or Two?”
She stares at me. “You realize the Ws are just for writing purposes, right? To make it short form? Saying them out loud makes the word longer.”
“You make the word longer,” I mutter.
Jess frowns. “What’s up with you tonight? You’ve been cranky since the moment we got here.”
Guilty as charged. I’m Mr. Cranky-Pants. I just spent two weeks going out of my way to avoid this woman, and it did nothing to fix the problem. Isn’t time supposed to be the answer to everything? Give it enough time, and whatever stupid feelings you’re having will eventually fade. Anger? A good night’s sleep always cures it. Sadness? A night at a bar with friends always does the trick. I think I might really like Jessica Canning? It’ll pass.
Except it hasn’t passed. Seeing her tonight only opened up the floodgates again.
“I didn’t have enough to eat,” I lie.
“Um. You ate steak, lobster, and about a million hors d’oeuvres, not to mention half my dinner.”
“Then maybe I’m thirsty,” I say flippantly. “I’m hitting the bar. Want anything?”
“No, I’m good.” Her gaze shifts back to the stage, where Hozier is getting ready to play his encore.
I leave Jess in the crowd and make my way to the bar, where I find Will O’Connor chatting up three skinny blonds with huge bazingas. One of them has her hand on his hip while another runs her palm up and down his arm. The newbie is loving the attention.
“Riley!” He greets me with a big grin. “Enjoying the party?”
I grunt, then ask the bartender for a whiskey neat.
“What’s the matter?” O’Connor mocks. “Wesmie’s sis won’t put out?”
“We’re just friends,” I answer. “And don’t say that shit around Wesley or he’ll kick your ass.”
O’Connor rolls his eyes and turns back to his companions.
I take my drink and wander off, but not back toward the stage area. Instead, I find a solitary corner and lean against the wall, sipping my drink. The ballroom is decorated in the same elegant style as every other charity fundraiser I’ve attended, only this one is for a dog rescue, so the pink wall hangings are covered with glittery silver paw prints, and the dessert I scarfed down and the name plates on the tables were also paw-shaped.
I study the crowd. Jess is standing with Wes and J-Bomb, laughing at something her brother whispered to her. Then they cheer their lungs out as Hozier starts singing. Jess moves seductively to the music, her hips swaying and blond head bopping.
Man, she’s pretty. And smart. And funny. And about a million other things I can’t put into words.
My mom called the other day and asked how the relationship was going. She even said to tell Jess hello for her, which, when it comes to Mom, is the equivalent of her giving the relationship her blessing.
Usually, the R-word makes me break out in hives. I’ve been a bachelor for five years and have no intention of changing up the status. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think all women are lying, untrustworthy assholes. But why take the chance, you know? Better to keep shit casual. Keep it about the fucking and forget about the trusting.
“There you are!” A breathless, flushed Jess flies up to me, her high heels clacking against the marble floor. “You missed the encore.”
“I’ll watch it on YouTube later.”
“You’re such a downer tonight.” She tugs the drink out of my hand, takes a sip, and then places the glass back in my hand. “Come on, party pooper. It’s time for the speech.”
I follow her back to our table. The event organizer seated us with Wes, Jamie, and a few of my other teammates and their WAGs. Eriksson is the only solo gent at the table, and he slides closer to Jess as she sits down.
“You ready to cry your eyes out, J-Babe?” he asks her.
I bristle. What the fuck is he calling her J-Babe for? That’s our thing. I glare at Eriksson over Jess’s head, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Why would I cry?” she asks, puzzled.
“You never been to a Broken Paws event before?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh man.” He reaches into his breast pocket and tugs out a handkerchief. “Canning, you’re about to experience something petrifying—a room full of grown men crying.”
Jess glances at me. “I thought this was a benefit to raise money for animal shelters.”
I nod. “It is.”
“Then why…?”
“Just wait,” Eriksson warns.
“Just wait,” our team captain, Luko, echoes from the other side of the table. He’s already got his own handkerchief out.
Mic feedback screeches through the room, and we all turn to see the founder of Broken Paws take the stage.
“Hello, everyone, I’m Paula Anderson—”
I shove my fingers in my mouth and let out a deafening whistle.