Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Foster pulls out his phone and shows us all pictures of the rock he bought. It’s a doozy for sure, but Mazzy’s cool as hell and deserves it.
I grin and lean back, stretching my arms behind my head. Nights like this are the best part of the season. Not the fame, not the stats.
Just this.
Friends who feel like family, laughter that takes the edge off and the grounding feeling that everything’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.
Somewhere in the middle of dessert, Rafferty pulls out his phone and checks his messages. He chuckles and then shows us a TikTok of a woman doing a dance routine in a bikini. I take great pleasure in knowing I got some of these guys hooked on the platform.
“Tempe just sent this to me,” he says, mouth full of chocolate cake.
“But why?” I ask, confused.
Rafferty shakes his head with a smirk. “Because she likes to push my buttons. She wants to know if I think she’s hotter than her, to which the answer is an emphatic no.”
“Good answer.” Penn squints at the video. “Is that the one who got roasted in the comments for saying she wouldn’t date a guy shorter than six feet tall?”
Rafferty blinks in surprise because Penn would be the last person you would think would follow any social media. “Probably.” His brows furrow. “But… you look at TikTok?”
Penn lifts a coy shoulder and nods my way. “Gotta follow my guy for support. And well… his content ends up serving me videos like that girl in the bikini. Go figure.”
“She’s cute,” North allows, “but she’s trying too hard. That’s not attractive.”
That launches a whole conversation that ordinarily wouldn’t occur but for the copious amount of alcohol we’re consuming.
“What actually makes a woman irresistible?” King asks, tapping the table for emphasis. “Like, actually.”
“Confidence,” North says without missing a beat. “The quiet kind. Farren has that oozing out of her pores.”
“Brains,” adds Penn. “Sass is a bonus. Mila is full of it.”
“Eyes,” Rafferty says. “And thighs. Tempe has perfect sets of both.”
Everyone looks at him.
“What?” He shrugs. “I’m a simple man.”
“Whatever,” I say, throwing a dinner roll at him and calling bullshit. It bounces off his chest back onto the table where it’s ignored.
Rafferty’s face softens, eyes a little dreamy. “For me, it’s spontaneity. That’s hot as hell and well, no one has that like Tempe.”
No one can argue with that. Rafferty walked right up to Tempe—a total stranger in a grocery store—and kissed her as a ruse to throw off a woman who was stalking him. Tempe was all in and went with it, and well… now they’re in love.
I turn to Atlas, the only other guy at the table besides me who is as single as they come. “What about you? Bikinis or brains?”
“It’s all about the laugh,” Atlas says with a firm nod, as if that cannot be argued with. And it can’t, really. “When it’s real. Not performative.”
We all stare at him.
King lifts a skeptical brow. “Performative? Where are you getting these big words?”
Atlas flips him off.
I smirk, swirling the last sip of whiskey in my glass. “You’re all full of shit,” I say. “You want the truth?”
They wait.
“I like them a little chaotic. Funny. Doesn’t take herself too seriously. But also…” I shrug. “Snack-sharing energy.”
“Snack-sharing?” Penn echoes.
“You know,” I say. “The kind of woman who doesn’t judge when you want gas station doughnuts at midnight and maybe even eats the last one without asking but you forgive her anyway.”
Foster chuckles. “You’re romantic in your own broken way.”
I tap my temple. “Layers.”
My phone buzzes on the table and I flip it over, my heart inflating to ten times its normal size. I answer as befits the queen on the other end. “How goes the smartest, funniest, sassiest, most confident and performative woman in the entire world?”
I hear snorts and laughs from the guys as I manage to roll all their favorite qualities onto my mom. “Hi, honey. Are you busy?”
I glance around the table. “Nope. Completely free to talk.”
“Mama Branson?” Rafferty asks with a twinkle in his eye.
I nod.
“Oh, hell yes,” King says. “Put her on speaker.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on,” Atlas urges. “We love Mama Branson.”
“And she loves you,” I say dryly, because she’s sort of become a mom to all the guys since she visits me often. “Me? Jury’s still out.”
I keep the phone pressed to my ear. “Hey, Ma. I’m out with the guys. Everything okay?”
Her voice is bright and full of warmth. “Oh, I’m just checking in. Put me on speaker.”
I groan but don’t think of disobeying her. Her Italian blood runs between aggressively loving and viciously protective. I put the phone in the middle of the table and tap the button that opens the conversation to everyone. “The gang’s all here,” I tell her.
“Hi, boys,” she croons, and they all shout out their greetings.