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)
When the Escalade pulled away from the curb, Dylan tipped her head back and moaned. “Don’t pay me for next week. Send the check to the gala.”
My brow furrowed. “Are you kidding me? You don’t have to do that.”
“Are you kidding me? Lying about giving money to charity? We don’t need this kind of karma on our asses. Plus, he’s not above checking if we secured seats with our names. And ten thousand is a lot of pants—it buys credibility that you have ten thousand in liquidity.”
“You’re right. Fuck. Thank God one of us is smart.” And that someone wasn’t me. I blew out air, delight trickling into my system. Bruce Marshall had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. “We need to practice some more.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying since I got here. Look, I’m not a fan of reverse cowgirl or spooning, but any other position, I’m down.” Dylan hiked her purse string up her shoulder, waggling her brows.
“I mean we need to get to know each other. He’s going to ask us questions we don’t know the answers to.” I rubbed my stubbled jaw.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s what I meant too,” she mumbled, the apples of her cheeks pink now.
She was adorable on top of being sexy. I’d already come to terms with the fact that I was going to fuck this woman and bear the consequences. Even the complete demolition of my life was a price worth paying.
“Like, what kind of things?” She tossed her hair back from her face.
“I don’t know. Favorite color. Favorite band. Favorite sex position.”
“Turquoise. Panic! At The Disco. Sideways sixty-nine.”
Precum pasted my crown to my briefs, my pulse hammering through the length of my dick. “Right. I think we should probably—wait, what’s sideways sixty-nine?”
“It’s the same as the regular one, but lying sideways so you can have eye contact. Pretty cool.”
Not so cool that I imagined her doing it with Tucker and wanted to plummet my fist into his face until he looked like a defiled cherry pie.
“Right. Let’s get inside and unpack all that.” I rubbed my hands together.
“You mean…now?” She frowned.
“Yes. Now.” I gestured to the café in front of us. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman.”
“That’s honestly not a selling point for me, but okay.”
“Dylan, you have to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?” She shot me a confused look.
“Being all funny and smart and sexy. Tone it down a little. Be, I don’t know, more like Cal.”
I liked Row’s wife, but she was a disaster area who suffered from frequent bouts of verbal diarrhea and was almost cartoonishly clumsy. I could spend an entire lifetime fake engaged to her without yielding to temptation—or even being tempted.
“No, I can’t.” Dylan grinned cunningly. “If you find me so irresistible, stop resisting.”
DYLAN
“So what’s your favorite color, band, and sexual position?” I stared at Rhyland from across the round table between us. We were sipping champagne—real champagne, not prosecco—and sharing a mouthwatering flatbread with herbs and artichokes and honey drizzled on it.
I ordered steak for an entrée, and he ordered a chicken salad. This place was not a coffee shop at all. It was a restaurant, and a damn expensive one. There were candles between us, French ballads playing softly in the background, antique chandeliers.
I knew this date wasn’t going to end up in the sack, so it was all a moot point. I didn’t really need to find out things about Rhyland. I could wing it out of any situation by bullshitting my way through.
“Pink, Oasis, clear the table.” He folded his hands, accentuating his crazy-buff biceps.
“Pink?” My champagne went down the wrong pipe, causing me to cough into my fist. “That’s your favorite color?”
“What’s not to like about pink? It’s the color of nipples and pussy—both my favorite things.” He squinted at me from behind his champagne, taking a slow sip as his lips spread into a taunting smirk. “Do I sense prejudice here? What’s wrong with a man loving on pink?”
“Absolutely nothing. You just give purple vibes.”
“Why do I—” he started. Then he shook his head, looking amused. “You know what? No way is he going to ask us about our favorite colors or sexual positions. He probably thinks anal play is the equivalent of signing a lease on a new condo in hell with your dick.”
“Fair enough. Let’s try to narrow down what he might ask about.” I snorted. “Probably how we got together and when.”
“We need to come up with a story.” He snapped his fingers, pointing at me. “Help me out here. You’re the one with the big brain and great ideas.”
I loved that Rhyland made me feel smart and reminded me of it so frequently. No one else ever did. Not because I wasn’t smart but because people hardly noticed it. I didn’t fit into the stereotype of a smart person. I was just a single mom with a bar job.