Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Dee pulls out a tiny black clutch and stuffs it with my phone, lipstick, and a packet of emergency tissues. “Now, come on. We need to get there early so you can meet the other bachelorettes and I can threaten to murder anyone who tries to haze you.” She winks. “Girl code.”
I breathe deeply, in and out, then grab my coat and follow her to the door.
We march out into the world, Dee’s arm hooked through mine, the blue dress swirling at my knees, and my heart beating so hard I can barely hear anything else.
Tonight, I’m going to be a bachelorette. And if I’m lucky, maybe Nathan will finally see what’s been right in front of him the whole time.
CHAPTER FOUR
NATHAN
I fucking hate public speaking. Which is a hilarious cosmic joke, since I own the most popular nightclub in town and am forced at least once a month to get up on a stage and act like I enjoy being the center of attention. Tonight is no different. And judging by the wall-to-wall crowd of horny bachelors, I’m about to hate every second.
Eamon’s off to my left, headset jammed onto his skull, barking orders to the staff and monitoring the security feed. The man is more machine than human at events like this, every muscle coiled for crisis. “Two minutes, Nate,” he says, glancing up from his clipboard to give me that flat cop stare. “Try not to go off-script this time, yeah?”
I roll my shoulders, popping the tension in my neck. “I’m my best off-script.”
He doesn’t crack a smile. “Keep believing that.”
I flip him off as I stride toward the edge of the backstage area, heart pounding harder with every step. From here, the glare of the stage lights makes it impossible to see the audience. I palm the microphone, double-check my suit jacket, and glance at the little lineup sheet clipped to my hand.
First up is a wannabe Instagram influencer, followed by a med student, then a local weather forecaster whose voice makes my skin crawl, and from there, the list of bachelorettes reads like the society pages. The last slot is blank. “Mystery Bachelorette—TBA,” it says, in Eamon’s blocky handwriting.
I lean over. “Who’s the mystery girl?” I ask the nearest assistant, a stressed-looking brunette with a clipboard and a Bluetooth earpiece.
She shrugs, eyes darting nervously. “Was a last-minute addition. I think Deirdre knows her?”
Fucking hell. I hate surprises.
A stagehand waves at me and counts down from five on his fingers. My stomach does a somersault. I jam my thumb against the mic and hope I don’t sound as anxious as I feel.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, voice booming over the speakers, “welcome to the first annual Midnight Mischief Bachelorette Auction!” The crowd explodes with whistles and applause. I pace at the edge of the curtain, willing my heart rate down as I launch into the intro. “All proceeds tonight will go to our Christmas Campaign—providing gifts, warm meals, and new coats for kids in the community. So, if you were planning to be a cheap bastard, think again.”
The ensuing laughter is a tidal wave, and just like that, I remember how to do this. Banter, control, own the room.
“Our lovely bachelorettes have graciously volunteered to be auctioned off for charity—so treat them like gold or you’ll answer to me. First up is…” I read off the sheet describing the Instagram influencer.
The curtain parts and the first bachelorette struts out, winks, and blows kisses to the crowd. She’s wearing a green minidress that shows off her stick-thin body, and she’s an instant hit. The bidding is fast and furious, numbers flying across the screens as paddle after paddle goes up. I ham it up on the mic, tossing in a few inappropriate jokes. The energy in the club is a living thing—hot, hungry, electric. I love it.
The second bachelorette is a quiet, pre-med who only agreed to do this because she lost a bet. She’s nervous as hell, and it’s actually kind of sweet. The crowd goes easier on her, but the bidding still cracks a grand. The weather forecaster after her is a crowd favorite, earning a raucous ovation. Two guys nearly get into a shoving match over her, and Eamon dispatches a bouncer to keep the peace.
Three down, and a few more to go before the mystery bachelorette.
After the last of the social butterflies, I squint at the lineup again. “For our final contestant, we have a last-minute addition—a real wild card,” I announce, drawing out the suspense. “She’s got brains, beauty, and a reputation for drinking grown men under the table. Give it up for… Veronica Lewis!”
My world stops as I stare down at the words, wondering if I had a goddamn stroke.
Because there, at the edge of the stage, is Roni.
My fucking Roni.
For a second, my brain refuses to compute what I’m seeing. Roni doesn’t do things like this. She doesn’t walk runways, or wear dresses that hug every inch of her curves like blue velvet shrink-wrap, or let her hair cascade in soft waves over her bare shoulders. She’s supposed to be at home, eating takeout and watching reruns. But here she is, high heels and all, stepping into the light with the kind of awkward grace that makes her a thousand times hotter than any of the bombshells who came before.