Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Kieran must’ve read my mind, because he explained, “He can get away with it because he’s a six-foot-five left-wing defender, built like a tank, and he screams toxic masculinity. I can’t. I’m nimble and pretty. Sports Illustrated’s words, not mine.”
I could practically envision him rolling his eyes on the other end.
“Don’t worry. I’ll come out eventually. After I retire. I’ll have my moment in the sun.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. It really wasn’t any of my business. But it hurt to know a dear friend of mine, whom I adored with all my heart, didn’t get to experience love and sex and first dates and sordid texting and uncontrollable butterflies.
Neither do you, you hypocrite.
Kieran was afraid to take a chance, but so was I.
“Enough about that,” Kieran grunted. “Tell me all about your past few days.”
“Hmm. Let’s see. My car died for the millionth time, Grav is mad at me for taking her away from her granny and Marty, and, oh, apparently Rhyland Coltridge and I are in some kind of a fake engagement deal.”
“Impossible,” Kieran said confidently. “I’ve already asked for your hand in fake marriage, and you declined. I’m richer, handsomer, and you actually tolerate me. Why would you say yes to his proposal?”
“First of all, to deflate that continent-size ego of yours…” I snorted, eyes fixed on the TV. “Second, because he needs to impress a traditional cowboy business investor, and I need a helping hand here and some money while I figure out my next steps.” I sipped my drink. “Speaking of, I do recognize a pattern here. Why do I get so many fake marriage proposals, never real ones?”
“What does it matter? You’re not ready for a relationship,” Kieran observed matter-of-factly.
“Would you be? Tucker ruined men for me.”
“You need some closure with him,” Kieran said.
“Ha.” I shook my head. “I’d have to find him first.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line before Kieran said, “I’m not sure how I feel about all this. Rhyland is a man-whore.”
“Sure is. But this is strictly business. You know I don’t catch feelings.”
Whenever I got butterflies in my stomach, I called pest control, the exterminator being the memory of being Tucker Reid’s girlfriend. The cheating, the fighting, the secrets, the letdowns. He reminded me of my late father, a volatile, toxic man who was only good at two things: failing and blaming others for the outcome of his actions.
It was surprisingly easy to turn your back on love when the only love you’d ever experienced was ugly and scarred.
“And the dick?” Kieran asked bluntly. “Will you be catching it?”
“Catching, stroking, licking…” I ran the tip of my finger over the rim of my cup, my head swimming with daydreams. “Why not? We’re both single and emotionally damaged enough not to get attached. No drawbacks.”
“What about Row?” Kieran asked. He and my brother had become fast friends since Row moved to London about three years ago, though they’d started out as sworn enemies.
“Row is not the boss of me.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Kieran warned.
But therein lay the problem. I’d spent the past four years trying so hard not to make mistakes, not to do anything foolish after accidentally tangling my destiny with Tucker’s, that I hardly did anything at all. Maybe moving to New York marked the beginning of a new me. Or, more likely, the old me. The me who took chances. The me who was bold and curious and creative and fun. The me who’d learned Latin one summer because it seemed interesting, played every sport at school for the fun of it, and kissed strangers in theme parks just so she could pocket the memory and win a bet.
Well, maybe not that last part.
The doorbell rang, along with the phone app, to signal someone was outside.
“Look, I gotta go.” I pushed off the kitchen island. “Someone’s coming.”
“That someone better not be you,” Kieran tutted. “Last time you came, it ended in an unwanted pregnancy, a runaway groom, and a small-town scandal.”
“You’re being a prude.”
“No. I’m being a bitter old hag,” Kieran corrected primly. “If I’m not getting some, neither should you. We need to start a Hot Sexless People club. We’ll be the founding members. We’ll have bingo nights—”
“We’re abstinent, not eighty.”
“Fuck that, Dyl. You and I both know bingo is a badass activity, and once you sit down for it, it’s the bomb.”
The doorbell rang again. I didn’t remember ordering a stage-five clinger.
“I gotta go.”
“Okay. Remember. No catching feelings.”
I hung up on the ridiculous man, shaking my head as I made my way to the door.
Me. Catching feelings. For Rhyland Coltridge.
Hell would become a ski resort first.
DYLAN
On the other side of the door was an Amazon delivery man holding a box—probably full of the new toys and books I’d ordered for Grav. Rhyland stood beside him, messing with his phone and looking like corruption in a sage-green suit.