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)
Tate Blackthorn commented: Wishing both sides success.
I’d always had mommy issues.
I once had a therapist who confirmed as much. Abandonment issues were secondary to my messed-up relationship with women, especially mothers.
Dylan tapped into my mommy issues like an erect dick on a perfect-peach ass. Everything about her triggered me. She was a hands-on, loving, fiercely protective mother. A constant reminder of what I didn’t have growing up.
I’d always had a fantastic talent for destroying any constructive relationship I had with women. That therapist, for instance? I ended up fucking and ghosting her—a punishment in my screwed-up head for making me open up to her about my vulnerabilities. And I could feel myself teetering on the edge of doing something really goddamn stupid with Dylan. I didn’t need her chef brother to know this was a recipe for disaster. All I needed was to feel in danger of opening up, of knocking down a wall or two, and I went into full-blown destruction mode.
And Dylan was dragging me out of my comfort zone kicking and screaming. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Now here I was, tucked in my McLaren, my Tom Ford shades covering my eyes, waiting for Dylan and Gravity to come downstairs. I glanced at my Rolex. The one I was definitely pawning this week to come up with the money for our deal. 10:45 a.m. She was late.
Fuck it. Let her get there in Jimmy.
I kicked the car into drive, about to slide out of my double-parked spot. Just as the McLaren started moving, Dylan and her daughter emerged from the building door.
And my entire fucking existence buckled at the sight of her.
She looked so good I choked on my tongue. I always knew she was a bombshell, but now, in broad daylight, the sun playing on her raven hair and her smooth, tanned skin, her honeyed glow burning the edges of her frame, I knew I had a problem.
A ten-and-a-half-inch problem.
One that threatened to poke my steering wheel and activate the horn.
She was wearing a floral yellow chiffon dress with a big white bow in her long hair. Gravity wore a tiny, identical version of the dress, and they were both sporting a pair of Mary Janes. God, I couldn’t fucking look away. The weight of my want for Dylan was pressing against my sternum, threatening to break my ribs clean.
She opened the back door, where Gravity’s seat was already installed, and buckled her in. I stared at Dylan’s cleavage through the rearview mirror, feeling my cock thumping against my thigh.
Then she entered the passenger seat next to me, the smile she offered her daughter melting into a scowl. “I’d say I’m sorry for being late, but I’m not. How’s that chlamydia medicine working?”
“Fantastic. Your drinking problem?”
“Under control.”
We had plenty of room to grow in the “playing pretend” department. I’d never been anything short of the perfect fake boyfriend. But then she’d come along and ruined a decade-long streak.
“You’re going to need to behave yourself there,” I warned. “The manager knows Marshall.”
“Oh, I’ll be a dream.”
I floored it. This newfound revelation that her beauty affected me in a deeper way than “I want to screw her badly” made my stomach churn. I mean, I got the flutters out there for a second. Hopefully it was just the new protein shake I’d tried that morning. Kieran had warned me that shit was potent.
“Hi, Uncle Rhyrand,” Gravity greeted sleepily.
“Hey, little stinker.”
“She slept awful last night. Misses her granny.” Dylan sighed, twisting her upper body backward to check on her. “My mom’s coming next week to give her some TLC. Honey, why don’t you take a nap while we drive?”
“I’m not tire—” Gravity started, but the protest turned into a snore midway. A second later, her head lolled from her seat, mouth hanging open as she napped.
Dylan tapped her knee rhythmically, glancing at me.
“What do you want?” I grumbled.
“A nicer fake fiancé,” she shot back.
“Download App-date. You’ll enjoy the variety.”
“Of what? AI people who don’t exist?” she taunted.
“Being in a relationship with something unreal should be familiar to you, judging by your vibrator collection,” I snapped back.
“You went through my stuff?” she raged.
“I was looking for tweezers to remove a thorn in Gravity’s palm. Most women I know keep vibrators in a nightstand drawer, not their bathrooms.”
That shut her up. For all of five seconds.
“Actually, I plan on subscribing to your site once you launch,” she piped up again, settling into her seat like a regal cat. “I’m going to be your first customer.”
I’m going to ban every male from the app to ensure you don’t match with anyone.
See, this was exactly the kind of risky train of thought I should be avoiding, especially after my intervention with Tucker.
Maybe if I didn’t respond to her, she’d get the hint.
“Have I done something to upset you?” She eyed me in confusion.