Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Bobby nods warily, a cheeky grin slipping across his face. “I see what you’re saying, but if he has a yacht …”
I gasp, making him laugh.
“I need to go check on my other less entertaining guests now,” he says. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Thank you,” Sutton says, flashing him a soft grin as he dashes away. Then she turns to me. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal, but will this be an issue? You don’t have to like him—”
“Good, because that’s impossible.”
“Just play nice. I need you to do this for me.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say, sipping my martini.
Sutton leans to the side, her smile growing. I start to turn to see what she’s looking at but stop in my tracks.
The hair on the back of my neck stands abruptly on end. Goose bumps ripple across my skin. Whiffs of expensive cologne—cedar and vanilla, if I’m not mistaken—nestle around me, trying to lure me into a false sense of comfort.
I set my jaw and brace myself.
Speak of the devil …
“Hey, Sutton,” Ripley says from behind me.
“Hi,” she says.
A long, heavy pause settles across the table. I hold my breath, refusing to break the ice.
“Hello, Georgia.”
Oof.
His voice is warm—rich, and smooth. My name rolls off his forked tongue as if it’s being caressed. The two syllables are blurred and lazily sexy, and I hate that as much as I don’t want to—he’s only putting on a show for Sutton—I like it.
Bastard.
I affix an aloof look on my face and turn slowly. I’m not fully pivoted in my chair when a pair of ocean-blue eyes snatch my gaze and hold it hostage.
Ripley smirks. “Am I interrupting?”
“No, you aren’t interrupting,” Sutton says, warning me with a lilt to her tone. “We were just chatting.”
“Looks intense,” Ripley says, his gaze still trained on me. “What was it about?”
I narrow my eyes back at him. “The devil.”
Chapter Two
Georgia
“Here we go,” Sutton mutters, her shoulders sagging.
“The devil?” Ripley’s smirk grows. “How is your family, by the way?”
“You’re such a riot,” I say, my voice edged in sarcasm. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Hell, presumably?”
He grins. “I just entered the pits of hell. You always provide such a lovely welcome party. Don’t they give you days off?”
A bright mockery invades his stare. My lips part to fire back a sharp retort, but I catch Sutton’s silent plea. It begs me to play nice.
The thought of letting Ripley win this exchange is almost painful. If I stay quiet, he’ll gloat—quietly, of course, because we’re in public. But he’ll know he won, and I’ll know he won. And he’ll know that I know he won, and living with that is unbearable even to consider.
Yet Sutton’s hopeful eyes stab me in the heart. I did come to The Swill to spend time with her, and to celebrate her new project and engagement. And she doesn’t ask much of me. And she is important to me; Ripley is not.
Ugh.
I sit back, take a deep breath, and adjust my features into a contrived serenity. The relief in Sutton’s posture is immediate.
“It’s your lucky day,” I say through semi-gritted teeth.
With a deliberate casualness that’s really a smug victory celebration, Ripley shifts his attention to a table of women across the room. They swoon beneath his gaze.
Despite my inherent dislike for the man and my frustration that no one ever sees beyond the exterior, I get it. Muscled thighs, a narrow waist, and shiny, copper-colored hair that looks like it’s had fingers run through it all day—it is textbook appealing. And his whole approachable-gentleman-with-a-glimmer-of-bad-boy vibe is alluring—if you don’t know better.
I get it.
I understand it.
I hate it.
He towers over me in tailored gray pants and a crisp white button-up. His sleeves are rolled to his mid-forearms, naturally showcasing his strength from a life of sports and a career in exercise physiology. As much as I don’t want to admit it, he’s ridiculously good-looking. If he’d keep his mouth shut, he’d be a ten.
“Why don’t you go talk to your fan club and leave us alone?” I ask him.
He pulls his attention to me. “Are you jealous? We’ll let you join. Don’t be mad.”
“Oh, please.”
“I love it when you beg.”
His lips curve into a sardonic smile, and his eyes twinkle with mischief as he waits for me to explode.
I lean forward, ignoring the notes of his stupid cologne, and meet his stare. I give him a little smile of my own.
“Careful, Ripley. Your subconscious is slipping again.”
“Is that what you think happened?”
“Of course. But it’s okay. Just a little slip of the tongue.”
The words are out before I can stop them. I flinch, knowing I just walked headfirst into a trap of my own making.
“Now, whose subconscious is slipping?” he asks, teasing me.
Dammit.
“Can you please leave?” I ask, huffing my displeasure.
“No. I’m meeting my brother Tate here in a few minutes. If you’re not happy here, you could leave.”