Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 129(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
The ice rattles in the shaking glass I’m still holding, the cool liquid spilling over the rim and down my fingers.
This. Man. Is. Gorgeous.
Gorgeous in that sort of caveman, asymmetrical, who-am-I-here-to-kill sort of way.
“Miss? Want me to open a tab?” I hear and bounce back to reality.
“Um… N—No.” I set down the glass and fumble inside my purse, feeling for the quilted pink Vera Bradley wallet my sister gave me for Christmas, but come up empty. I start tossing things on the bar, the sense that the Adonis is moving closer making me hyperventilate, but the bartender is giving me his best hurry-up smile. “Just a second…”
I pull out an old lanyard with a security badge from two jobs ago, then a keychain heavy with twenty keys, most of which I have no idea what they’re for, then my makeup bag, which is half open.
The contents clatter onto the bar top, mascara spinning and my compact busting open, little shards of formerly-compressed powder tumbling onto the polished wood.
“Shit.” I search the abyss of my bag, but there is no pink to be seen anywhere. “I’m sorry…my wallet. It must be in my car—”
“On me.” A dark voice from some far away galaxy turns me into a steaming pile of girl goo, as the magic man stands directly to my left. I’m sucked into his masculine aura and a spicy, dangerous scent that nibbles directly on my clitoris.
Hello.
“No, it’s okay, it’s in the car I’m sure…” I lie, like I’m not legitimately notorious for losing my wallet.
Three times last year, once already this year; pushing up on twice, it seems. The lady at the emergency bank number knows my account by heart.
“Red dress. Are you Caroline?” His voice seems to echo around me as I take in the way his nose is a bit off center, but in the sexiest way, and I have this sudden vision of my clothes spontaneously bursting from my body.
I shake my head, so slowly I’m sure it’s almost imperceptible. “No, I’m…not Caroline.”
Should I be Caroline?
I want to be Caroline.
A flash of what looks like disappointment darkens his eyes as I open my mouth to offer my name, but a horrible screech steals the wind from my throat.
“I’m Caroline!”
We turn in unison, like synchronized swimmers, then release matching groans.
A waving woman with plumped, pursed lips is eagerly approaching, holding out a nearly empty wine glass.
“Are you Tor? I’m Caroline!” she repeats, smacking her chest so excitedly I think she’s going to explode into a vapor of glittery confetti to match her midi-length strawberry-colored sequined dress.
Something about how she looks at me makes me want to crawl under my barstool. My face heats as I note the deep indigo horned animal skull tattoo that decorates the back of the sexy stranger’s hand, before he mumbles something about his grandmother as an angry tension hardens his jaw.
“Who is this?” The woman hits me with a hard look and I immediately shrink back as the man closes his eyes and I hear him counting under his breath.
One. Two. Three. Four…
All the way to ten, and actually, honestly, as anger management techniques go, it’s not so bad. Straight off of Wikipedia.
“I’m sorry.” His eyes land on mine and I’m lost on a life raft floating in their blue tidepools. He sounds actually sorry. Defeated, almost. He waves to the bartender, then points at my glass.
Uncle Sylvester the bartender gives him a slight nod, and I understand the silent agreement they just made relieving me of the need to find my wallet.
His fingers brush across mine, sending a battalion of fire ant stings up my arm as the woman tosses back the last of her white wine, her hair in a tight black bun as she struggles to walk in the mermaid-tightness of her dress.
“I’m sorry, too,” I whisper as he steps around me, jabbing at my heart with one more killer look as someone else appears in the entryway of the bar, and I know immediately that the evening just went from bad to worse.
Because the Adonis wasn’t Arthur.
There is Arthur.
My MatchMe date stands there, his hair a wisp of what once was slicing across the shine of his bald head. His profile pic was a decade old, easy. Khakis with a grease stain on the right thigh are paired with a short-sleeve open-collar light blue button down with the NASCAR emblem embroidered on the front pocket.
And he’s gnawing on a pulpy toothpick. Because of course he is.
Suddenly, a free dinner seems less like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and more like a steaming bucket of you-get-what-you-deserve.
Hi, Karma. It’s me, Natalie.
Chapter Three
Tor
My patience is at its limit.
Caroline is a non-stop deluge of complaints about everything, from the kind of ice cubes in her water to the uneven sear marks on her ahi tuna. I’m about to lose my fucking mind.