Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
New jeans?
Assbag?
I’m trying to follow her logic. “You agreed to drinks so you could wear your new jeans?”
She nods, letting out a satisfied ahhh after her drink. “Yup. I don’t like wasting them on the grocery store.”
Margot slides off the stool, sets her glass on the bar top, and skims her palms over the front of her dark denim jeans. She postures and poses, jutting out her hip. For someone who hasn’t spent more than a few minutes in my company, she certainly isn’t shy.
It’s as if she doesn’t care what I think of her.
Tucked into the high waist of her pants is a black silk blouse—it’s covered with small bright-blue lightning bolts.
The top three buttons are unbuttoned.
It’s flirty.
Cute.
Big gold hoop earrings.
If she’s trying to keep this evening casual, she’s doing a remarkably shitty job because I haven’t been able to stop staring down her shirt since we got here, and I sure as hell want to reach over and touch her hair, feel if it’s as soft as it looks.
Instead, I set down my beer and crack my knuckles.
“Cute” is what I manage to say.
“Cute,” she mimics, hopping back on her stool. “The thing every grown woman wants to be called.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting annoyed about. If I had said those jeans make your ass look amazing, you would be insulted by that too.”
Her head shakes. “Not true. These days, I’m willing to take whatever compliments I can get.”
Margot laughs, looking adorable and fun and sexy, and in the back of my brain I wonder if anyone has taken our photo and whether or not a picture of us will appear online tomorrow. Or tonight.
One never knows.
I couldn’t care less, but I imagine that as a teacher Margot would care a whole lot.
It’s a weird, foreign feeling sitting next to a woman who doesn’t seem to be interested in me romantically. Financially. Physically.
I should check her temperature; maybe she’s coming down with an illness . . .
She plucks up a menu, studies it a few seconds before snapping it closed when the bartender walks over to wipe down the counter—whether he’s trying to listen to our conversation or he’s ready to take our order, I do not know.
“I find it so fascinating you’re on a dating app.” She resumes sipping her cocktail. “Is this your first go-round?”
I assume she’s asking if I’ve been on dating apps before. “Yes, it’s my first time. My, uh—friend’s girlfriend created Kissmet.”
Margot blinks at me.
Blinks again.
“Are you kidding me right now?” Smacks me on the shoulder as if I were her bro, eyes wide with delight. “Shut the front door! She did not.”
I nod. “It’s true.”
“Stop it—that is so cool! Did she actually?”
I nod again. “Yeah. Her name is Harlow.”
“That is so cool,” she whispers again in an awe-filled voice. “What’s it like knowing someone who created something so useful?”
She sounds so impressed. More impressed than she sounded when she discovered I am a bona fide, real-life professional athlete, my face and name scattered on billboards and products all over the country. All over the world.
My ego bruises a fraction.
I clear my throat. “Harlow is awesome.”
“That’s so neat,” she gushes. “I can’t wait to tell Wyatt.”
I humph, shoulders slouching.
Perk up when the bartender returns with a basket of chips and another beer for me. Margot digs in immediately, chomping down on a chip. Moans as if it’s the best thing she’s had all week.
“What made you decide to start dating? Or go on an app, I mean. I bet you have women throwing themselves at you left and right.”
I nod. “My friends are dropping like flies, and I was getting jealous of hearing about it.” I laugh. “Once my friend Landon moved to a city to play football and to be with his girlfriend, I . . .”
She waits for me to finish, swirling her glass and staring down into it.
“It’s about time to grow up,” I say, jerking my head at the end of my sentence as if to say period point blank.
“But you don’t want a family.” Margot is about to pop another chip in her mouth.
“Nah, too busy for one.”
“But you want a girlfriend?” Her nose is wrinkled up now, which tells me one thing: I said the wrong thing.
“Sure.”
She chews.
Swallows.
Then.
“Why?”
“Why do I want a girlfriend?”
A nod. “Yes. You just said you were too busy for a family—wouldn’t that same rule apply for a partner? Wouldn’t that make you too busy for a relationship?”
“No, dude—a girlfriend can travel with me.”
“So while you’re working, she can follow you around the United States, waiting for you to get done with your games?”
I sigh with relief. She totally gets it!
“Exactly!”
Margot laughs. “That is the stupidest freaking thing I’ve ever heard.”
It is? “Why?”
She shrugs. “For so many reasons, but you know what? It doesn’t matter what I think because your dating life is none of my business. What is my business is your dragging my daughter into your dating drama, knowingly or not—she’s done nothing but plot and plan more money-building schemes to involve you in since she met you.”