Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“Yeah, it’s just ice skating with a stick,” Jaxon mimics. “You should come to one of our practices. Should be easy enough.”
“That would be dope,” he says, and I literally look the other way.
“So you said you deal with mergers and acquisitions.” Kirby tries to bring down the tone. “How do you like it?”
“It has to do a lot with contracts and negotiations,” he answers him. “Not sure how much of that you would understand.”
“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I announce, knowing it was a dig at Kirby. Even though I want to tell him he’s an asshole, it’s much more fun watching Zane get irritated. “I’ll be back.”
I grab my purse and head to the bathroom, closing my eyes when I get inside and then hanging my head. Okay, fine, maybe accepting a date from a total stranger wasn’t the best idea I’ve had, but I was sitting down, pining for a man who didn’t even want me. It was time to get off the fucking pot and do something. This was that something. I walk over to the mirror and look into it. My hair is down and around my face, my makeup on perfectly.
Did I do my makeup thinking of Zane? Correct. Did I dress sexier than I should to go to a hockey game? Also correct. Who the fuck wears high heels to a hockey game? No one, but what is on my feet right now? Stilettos because that is the journey I am now on. My blue jeans fit tight around my hips, clinging to all the right places, and showing off my ass in the best fucking way. The black shirt is tucked in and has the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the neckline goes off one shoulder, but you can’t tell because my hair is draped over it. Opening my purse, I pull out the lip gloss, apply it to my lips, and take a huge inhale before I close my eyes and head back out there. I shouldn’t have left Elliott alone, but I had to get away from Zane. His smell had invaded my senses, and along with him staring at me half the time even though I avoided looking in his direction, I felt his eyes on me.
I pull open the bathroom door and I take a step out and see him leaning against the wall beside the door. His feet are crossed at the ankles, his hair is pushed to the side like it always is. His beard makes my hands itch to touch it, his shirt—again open at the collar—and I want nothing more than to lick up his throat while I ride him. “Jesus.” I put my hand to my chest. “What are you doing lurking near the women’s bathroom, Zane?”
“Oh, now she knows my name,” he goads, and I can feel the tension in the hallway. It’s thick and the walls are closing in on us.
“What are you doing waiting for me in the dark hallway?” I ask as I try not to get too close to him, fearing I’m going to try to touch him and he’s going to turn me down, yet again.
“No, what are you doing is the question of the night,” he fires back. I fold my arms over my chest and my tits push up more.
His eyes roam down as he takes in my action. “I don’t know what you mean.” I smile at him, a fake smile just like I gave Elliott before. “Right now I’m having the best night I’ve had practically all year long.” I shrug my bare shoulder and his tongue comes out to lick his bottom lip, mine wanting to come out and touch his. “I might even end the night with Elliott and me rolling around in—”
“Victoria,” he says my name and the minute he does, my whole body starts to tingle. My stomach flutters. My heart speeds up. My nipples tighten, and a certain part of me demands to be played with.
“Yes,” I reply, pretending that him saying my name does nothing to me, “what can I do for you?” He just stares at me and his look is one where I want him to pick me up and push me against the wall, which pisses me off. “You know what, I don’t care what you have to say,” I hiss. “It’s been a week since I called you, one fucking week.” I hold up my finger and he takes a step closer to me. “And you haven’t done anything. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing.”
“So you date that guy?” He points to where the table is.
“Why shouldn’t I? What do you want me to do, stop living my life?” I roll my eyes. “I’m twenty-five, not ninety-five.”
“That guy is a fucking tool, and you deserve better,” he says softly. My eyes burn and my nose stings, knowing he’s right, but not wanting to give him the satisfaction.