Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
This is so fun.
“You’re trouble,” I tell him.
“You love it,” he counters, clinking his glass to mine again.
“Do I?”
His gaze drops to my lips. “You tell me.”
And just like that, he takes my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor, the thrum of music pulsing through the night like a heartbeat.
We’re drunk. We’re flirty.
Maverick is the kind of drunk that winks for no reason and does finger guns at people and spins me without warning, catching me when I stumble, laughing with his whole chest.
God, it’s so unfair how hot he is.
He is amazing.
“Grant!” someone shrieks over the music.
We both freeze at the sound of his fake name.
I turn my head as a blond in a rose-gold dress barrels toward us with alarming speed, her curls bouncing like she just stepped off a bridal magazine cover.
Maverick recovers first. “Evy from the champagne fountain!” he booms at her, grinning like he’s thrilled to see her—her, whom I’ve never seen a day in my life. “Come say hello to Chelsea!”
How the hell does he know her name? And by Chelsea, is he talking about me?
“Oh my God! Chelsea!” The girl ignores him, throwing her arms around me in a full-body hug. “I’m so glad someone from Syracuse is here!”
From who-see-where now?
“Oh totally,” I say, with the confidence of someone who does not know if Syracuse is a city, a college, or a cheese. “Refresh my memory, how did we meet?”
She pulls back and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re the friend who used to date Bryce.”
Right. “Bryce.” I echo, panic-sweating through my satin dress. “I forgot about him.”
“Bryce Winters! From Sigma Chi? The creep who made out with one of his brothers’ girlfriends at formal and then tried to say it was a ‘fraternal misunderstanding’?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about—obviously—and it shows.
Maverick jumps in to save me with a bark of laughter. “Chelsea dumped him so fuckin’ fast his head spun.”
“Bryce was the absolute worst!”
The woman beams. “I knew I remembered you! God, I love that you’re here. You have to do a shot with me. It’s tradition!”
Evy drags me to the bar and orders three tequila shots. I try to subtly remind my liver that it’s on vacation. Then I down the shot and smile like someone who isn’t actively making life choices they’ll regret tomorrow.
We dance. Hard.
Turns out, Evy is a wild flailer—arms everywhere, hair flying out of its once perfect chignon, heels be damned. She grabs other relatives into our makeshift circle until we’re surrounded by aunts, uncles, and one groomsman, who keeps yelling “Woooooo!” at the top of his lungs.
At some point, I lose track of the beat. Lose track of how many shots we’ve had (hint: too many). Lose track of how many times I’ve laughed so hard my cheeks hurt.
The music slows. A classic wedding slow-dance ballad begins—and Maverick? He’s in front of me, champagne glass now empty, top buttons on his shirt undone. Hair slightly damp from dancing. A lazy, satisfied grin on his face.
“C’mere,” he says, curling two fingers and crooking them in my direction.
“You want to slow dance?”
“I want to do more than slow dance,” he says lazily.
His words land like a punch to the gut when he puts his hand on my arms and pulls me in, sliding his big, rough hand around my waist.
“Oh really?” I ask, heart beating out of my chest. “Like what?”
You know what he means, Annabelle . . .
Maverick dips his head, lips brushing the tip of my ear. “I’ve been thinkin’ about how easy it would be to slide the straps of that dress down. About backing you into the nearest dark corner and making you moan my name.”
My breath catches in my throat. He keeps going, slower now, the words silky and wicked and so damn quiet only I can hear.
Like a dirty secret.
“Wondering if you’re still wearing those tiny little shorts you had on last night or if I could slip my hand under your dress right now and feel how wet you are for me.”
My knees wobble. He tightens his grip just enough to keep me upright, swaying us gently to the beat.
“And if I led you out of here—disappeared with you back to the cottage—how long would it take before you were up against the wall, legs around my waist, begging me to fuck you.”
Oh Lord . . .
Well then.
“Ye ken I could make ye come from my mouth on yer neck?”
Oh. Oh.
I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat and groan, “Stop.”
“Why?” he murmurs. “Ye love it when I talk like this, don’t ye, mo chridhe?”
My heart slams against my ribs. I have no idea what mo chridhe means, but I’m certain it’s sweet. Which is bad.
Bad, bad, bad!
This is bad.
This is dangerous. It goes beyond flirty. This is nuclear-level attraction wrapped in a crisp white dress shirt and a Scottish accent that could bring entire wedding parties to their knees.