Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
It’s one thing to keep a low profile as a random dude takes pictures of an actress and her friends dancing at a bar. But when Ripley stops dancing, tensing everywhere as she spots the guy, it’s another thing entirely.
That’s my cue.
The moment her smile vanishes, I push away from the wall, stride over to her, and whisper in her ear, “You okay?”
She turns her face toward me, tucking it close to mine. “That’s my ex.”
Oh, hell no.
My fists clench, and my shoulders tighten. As the song plays on, I weave past the group of women, heading to the shithead at the bar. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, sporting too-messy-to-be-bothered sandy-brown hair, looking like he’s trying to channel Jeremy Allen White chef energy from The Bear.
I get too close to him, nodding at his phone. “Maybe put that down,” I tell him.
He barely lowers the device and doesn’t look my way at all. He just leans harder against the wood counter, like he’s the epitome of cool. “Pretty sure it’s not a crime to take pictures.”
“Pretty sure it’s rude,” I counter.
“It’s a public place. And who put you in charge?” he shoots back.
“I did,” I say, cold and unflinching.
He scoffs, shaking his head. “Okay, bouncer.”
Seriously? Even if I were the bouncer, this is how he talks to someone who could toss him out the door from here?
He doesn’t seem to care though. Still holding up his phone, he walks away from me and right toward Ripley and her friends, who have stopped dancing. “Hey, you,” he says to her, pasting on an entirely different personality.
What is wrong with this asshole?
She peels away from her friends, moving closer to me as she folds her arms across her chest and answers him. “What do you want?”
He gives her a friendly almost-nudge that makes me want to throttle him. “So good to see you. Love that you’re out having fun in this sweet town. I took some pics of you and your crew. You don’t mind, do you?” he asks in the schmooziest voice I’ve ever heard. “This clown seems to think you’d mind.” He hooks his thumb toward me.
Oh, fuck him. I bump up next to him, letting my shoulder knock into him. I tower over him by a good six inches. I easily have sixty pounds on the guy, a chest much broader, arms much stronger, and legs much thicker. And, most importantly, I’m not fucking afraid of him.
Ripley flashes a huge smile I know is fake as she says to her ex, while pointing at me, “Oh, you mean my bodyguard?”
All at once, Eric Patrick stands at attention, his eyes flickering my way now with real worry in them. “Wait. You’re not—”
“Some random jackass who didn’t want you to take pics at a bar?”
He backs away from me. I move closer. “B-b-but I didn’t know you were with her.” He gulps, then his expression shifts to a sunny smile. “And wouldn’t you know it—you guys are just the people I need to talk to. These pics of Ripley and her friends would be the perfect press for the space. If I can get it.”
Are you kidding me? One, he’s not getting the space, and I know it for a fact. Two, what a fucking phony.
Ripley’s brow furrows. “You took pictures of us for press? For the restaurant you don’t even have yet?”
Eric Patrick waves toward Haven in the corner. “Your sister’s a star, and you’re a Darling Springs institution,” he says, desperately trying to defend himself. “It’d be such a help. The space I want is right next door. I can say you were here. It’d be such great pre-buzz on social. You’re going to talk to Esmeralda for me, right, Ripley? She’s got some others looking at the space, and you putting in a good word would smooth it over.”
I want to kill him. Pretty sure my woman does too.
She parks her hands on her hips. “No.”
“C’mon,” he wheedles. “You were always so helpful. You help everyone. Help a guy out. You like my cooking.” His voice rises with hope at the end.
Enough of him. “She said no,” I bite out.
He shrugs like an oily salesman. “Yeah, but you know how women are.” His tone is all, c’mon buddy, old pal.
I burn. “I know she said no. That means she doesn’t want you to use the pictures, and she doesn’t want to help you.”
“You could let her tell me that,” he says, clinging to the edge of a sinking life raft.
“I did say that,” Ripley says, exasperated. “You never listened, and I’m not helping you.”
“But that’s your thing, Ripley. You help people. You helped that woman change a tire on the side of the road after dinner once. You helped that dog that got out of its yard get back to its home. You brought a coffee from Pick Me Up to the guy who runs The Slippery Dingle.”