Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Afterall, we did get hitched.
I’ve got the jewelry to prove it.
And a copy of the license in my wallet I think.
“So,” I suck the bit of frosting off my thumb, “best-friend-in-law-”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“What exactly is my wife’s type?” The increased stickiness has me wiping my hands off on the sheet. “Evidently, it’s not the main character in a remake of The Craft featuring an all-male leading cast.”
“Athletes, arse hat,” he announces on a bitter smirk. “Particularly those that wear ice skates and are missing more than their fair share of teeth from brutally pounding another human being into a pulp on sharp metal blades.”
Wouldn’t call me an athlete.
Athletic build?
For sure. For sure.
An athlete?
Not so fucking much.
I prefer to occasionally pop into Gym Life not live the gym life.
What can I say?
I have more fun doing other shit like cannonballing into the lake off a rope swing. That’s a helluva lot better than doing bench presses.
“When those Neanderthals are unavailable for her—as they often are—she’ll take whatever jock cock she can ride next. Swimmers. Divers. Lacrosse members. Football players. I think one summer she even banged a pair of badminton teammates in a three-way.”
Didn’t need to know that.
And now part of me hates him for telling me that.
“And when Hennington can’t land an athlete, she goes for the close cousin.”
My eyebrows lift in question.
“Fuckboys.”
Yeah, not gonna openly admit how close to that shit I really am.
“However, it’s not because she’s too bloody stupid to know that’s what she’s getting. No. It’s actually quite the contrary. She prefers fuckboys because she herself has no interest in long term commitment or responsibility with regards to the opposite sex. Those behaviors pretty much go completely against her hockey first, hockey last mentality.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been this impressed and this irritated in the same fucking breath.
“Which is why she fled for Texas first thing this morning to prepare for an impromptu interview rather than telling the media to bugger off and give her more time to properly grieve the death of her bloody father.”
Geoffrey had mentioned she lost her dad on our flight over and how bummed he was he couldn’t afford the ticket to fly in for the funeral but didn’t give a lot of details besides those. And I would’ve asked for more last night, but Harlow didn’t seem interested in that topic, so I didn’t exactly pry. Besides, digging up her family shit would pop the top of my own family champagne of shit, and I am never interested in pouring from that bottle.
“The suite is ours to do with what we please for another night; however, we do have to watch her on the tele in a few hours.” Geoffrey’s smile is almost bashful. “I swore when she took over ownership, I’d do whatever I could to support her in her new role.”
Twinges of unpredicted jealousy push me to shove the rest of the donut into my mouth to prevent from being an unnecessary dick to my boss twice in one sitting.
“What do you think? Gamble for a bit and invite a couple of lovely ladies to lounge by our rooftop pool with us while we watch?”
Rather than express that I have no interest in anyone except the woman that just left, I merely nod my compliance.
Just because they’re invited up doesn’t mean we’re gonna fuck.
And more importantly, it doesn’t mean I want to.
In fact, the only person I’m interested in boning, bounced without so much as a goodbye, thanks for last night, or leaving me her fucking phone number.
Gonna change the latter.
Few drinks, few right words, and the dude I came to play wingman for will be handing over that shit like free drinks at a bachelorette party.
I’m gonna get my new wife’s contact info before I leave this place.
I guarantee it.
Harlow
I can’t be pregnant.
This has to be the flu.
Or food poisoning.
Or spring fever making a terribly late comeback in the season.
This cannot—and I repeat for those sitting in the nosebleed section—cannot be the beginning stages of me growing a human. Fucking. Life.
Nope.
I am not built for that.
Fuck, I am not responsible enough for that.
I’m thirty-seven and still think having strawberry frosted Pop-Tarts for breakfast counts as a fruit serving.
Another harsh squeeze occurs in my stomach forcing one more round of magical vomit to join what’s already in the toilet. After the nonexistent food has finished being expelled, I close the lid, press my face against the cool white object, shut my eyes, and lazily reach over to make the contents inside disappear.
Medical better say that my bloodwork is fine.
That even though I missed the last round of my birth control shot that it’s impossible for me to be knocked up.
That this is all just some unusual result from having ingested too much tequila at a young age.