Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
UGH!
I want to look pretty and fuckable…
But I don’t want his sister to suspect anything.
Life is hard.
High-waisted jeans.
Black, off the shoulder top that displays enough cleavage to be questionable, but still appropriate.
Heels to better match his height. Or, more accurately, heels to remind him exactly how long my legs are when wrapped around his head.
I finish the look with gold hoops and red lipstick that could leave a very telling mark on someone’s neck if things… were to escalate toward the end of the evening.
“Let’s keep it classy,” I whisper to my reflection as I spritz perfume on my collarbone like a liar. “This is a group date.”
I step out into the living room and nearly collide with Georgia, who gives me an approving once-over and zero hint she’s onto me.
Us.
“You look so hot!” she chirps. “Like, so hot. Like a girl who would make out with my brother at a pool party.”
I freeze. My heart has stopped beating.
“Oh my god—I’m kidding.” She laughs. “You should see your face.”
“It’s bright red, isn’t it?” I laugh nervously. “’Cause that would be wild, wouldn’t it?”
“So wild.”
Then Turner steps out of his room and I catch a whiff of him, vagina already making executive decisions on my behalf.
He looks annoyingly good—hair damp like he just stepped out of a cologne commercial, sleeves rolled up on his blue, button down shirt.
Dear lord, he’s handsome…
Georgia, oblivious, grabs her purse and flips her sleek ponytail. “Let’s go, people! I’m starving, and if I don’t eat soon I’ll start chewing on Turner’s emotional baggage.”
He shoots her a look. I shoot myself an invisible tranquilizer.
I’m spared his close proximity when he volunteers to drive us downtown—Georgia hops in the passenger seat without hesitation, leaving me alone in the back seat.
Great.
Plenty of time to stare at his delicious profile; plenty of time to admire his jawline. Try very hard not to look at the muscles flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves or think about how those hands have been places. On me.
Around me.
And every now and then, his gaze flickers to the rearview mirror, locking on mine for a second too long…
By the time we pull up in front of the restaurant, I’ve mentally cycled through all five stages of grief, fallen back into denial, and reapplied my lip gloss twice.
Fortunately for me, the restaurant is dimly lit, with a moody ambiance and tuxedoed waitstaff, and leather chairs that look as if they belong in a London library. Georgia looks effortless in her blazer and high ponytail.
I, on the other hand, am one deep breath away from fidgeting with the bread plate and screaming into the linen napkin on my lap.
Beneath the table, Turner’s thigh brushes against mine, a casual little touch that nonetheless sends a shiver through my spine.
Enter: the server.
She’s beautiful. Her chignon is tight, her red lipstick is aggressive, and her eyes go straight to Turner like she’s been trained to recognize high-quality man meat. Or maybe she recognizes him and is a fan. Either way, she immediately begins flirting.
“Good evening,” she says, voice smooth as the sauvignon she’s recommending. “May I start you off with a glass of wine?”
Georgia smiles politely. “We’ll take the wine list.”
But the waitress isn’t looking at Georgia.
Or me.
She’s gazing at Turner like he’s the tomahawk steak on special.
“And you?” she asks, leaning just slightly into his space. “Do you have a preference?”
“I’ll wait until the ladies have ordered,” he says politely, ever the gentleman.
“Of course,” she purrs. “I’ll be back in just a moment.” She saunters off, hips swinging like she’s been personally hired by the Michelin Guide to seduce every man who walks through the doors.
I narrow my eyes at her back.
Georgia flips open her menu. “She was pretty,” she says casually, not looking up.
“Hmm?” Turner says, fake-innocent, mouth twitching.
I try not to roll my eyes. “Pretty thirsty, yeah.”
Turner’s lips twitch, like he’s dying to laugh but knows better.
“Yeah?” he hums, gaze still fixed on his menu like it’s the most riveting piece of literature he’s ever read. “Maybe she appreciates good manners.”
“Manners?” I scoff. “She practically climbed into your lap to take your drink order.”
“She did not,” he says, feigning shock. “Did she?”
Georgia still isn’t looking up. “I think she licked her lips twice. Maybe three times. But who’s counting?”
His grin widens. “I like when you get feisty.”
Feisty?!
Not a minute later, the server returns with the wine list, setting it down directly in front of Turner as if his sister and I are not even there. Her smile?
Sweet and lethal. “I brought our reserve menu in case you’re in the mood for something rare.”
Jesus Christ.
Barf.
Georgia commandeers the menu before I can grab it, flipping through with a hum, finger moving over a collum of liquor.
“I’ll do a glass of Moscato,” she says, handing it to me.
“Same.”
“Lovely,” she says, still glancing down at my roommate. “And for you?”