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)
She huffs a sigh, crossing her arms. “Fine. I like the outdoors; I was just trying to be difficult.”
No comment. “What about you?” I steal more appetizers.
“I like to read.”
Was that a challenge?
“Same.”
Her head tilts. “Oh, is that so. What kind of books?”
I crack my knuckles, pleased I have an answer to this to fire off. “Mostly audio. Easy to listen to on a flight and in the car.”
“Like murder podcasts and such?”
I can’t keep the smile off my lips. “What is it with you and trying to weasel a confession out of me that I’m a killer, you weirdo.”
When Margot laughs, I study her. Head tipped back, hair falling down her back in waves, tits jiggling in her silk shirt—a dimple suddenly appearing in her cheek. What’sthisnow? A dimple?
Stop it right fucking now.
I want to put my finger in her cheek and poke it. How did I not notice this before? Oh yeah, I know how—she’s been pissed at me until this very moment.
Dimples are my kryptonite.
A game changer.
It must only appear when she finds something really funny. This new indicator of my humor has activated a launch sequence. Must. Make. Her. Laugh.
Unfortunately, I’m more handsome than funny.
“I don’t think you’re a killer. Promise.” She holds a hand to her heart. “But I am going to give you shit about it—that’s a real concern for women in the dating world, so I’m sure you’ll hear it again.”
I hope not.
“Am I that intimidating?”
Margot has the nerve to laugh in my face. “No! God no. Why, do people tell you that?”
Uh.
Yes?
Literally all the time?
Have I mentioned my football stats? I’m a beefy six foot four, graduated from a Big Ten university with decent grades, sport a bushy beard sporadically, have wide linebacker shoulders, and eat three cheeseburgers in one sitting.
Not to brag.
“Oh my God.” Margot cackles harder. “They do tell you that, don’t they.”
“Stop laughing at me.” I spread my arms wide, beer in my left paw. “Do I not look like I could mud wrestle a bear?”
She laughs harder still, damn her. Is she being fucking serious? Why is this so funny? What is she laughing at?
“Mud wrestle? That is so specific.”
“You’re a brat,” I finally say, much to her amusement.
“No, no—by all means, tell me how you’re going to wrestle a bear, in the mud, and win. I want to hear it.” Margot waves a hand aimlessly in the air, all the while mocking me.
I glare, a thousand retorts in the back of my brain and not a single one that’s intelligent.
Chapter 9
Margot
I can do nothing but stare back at him.
He is at a loss for words, but I can see his brain racking for something witty to say. We’ve only spent a short bit of time in each other’s company, but I feel as if I already know him well enough.
Dex is beyond irritated, which makes this all the more hilarious.
Aww. Poor guy.
He wants to have a clever comeback, but he doesn’t know how.
I’m not doing his ego any favors by giggling at him uncontrollably, but c’est la vie.
It is what it is.
He’s staring at me, eyes scanning my face. What does he see?
Not one of those women he chooses to date, the young, carefree kind who are able to give him the time he clearly desires. Someone who can be at his beck and call. Someone without responsibilities.
Dex is younger than I am by several years.
Yes, he has an insane profession. The deep dive I did on him after seeing him in person, at the restaurant, revealed an impressive NFL career—one that intimidates me, despite me telling him to his face that I am not intimidated by him. His job does, not the man himself.
The two feelings are not mutually exclusive.
“Tell me how you’re going to wrestle a bear, in the mud, and win,” I tease. “I want to hear it.”
“I didn’t mean literally,” he says at last, thieving yet another one of my fries. At this rate I won’t have any left; he is consuming them two or three at a time, the basket dwindling at a rapid pace as he jams them into his piehole.
And what a piehole it is.
I avert my eyes so he doesn’t catch me gawking at him. Dex isn’t my usual type, but who can resist a man built like him? Big. Broody. Good looking and rugged in an in-your-face kind of way. No doubt he has slept with dozens of women; no doubt he was irresistible in college.
I am a grade school teacher.
What am I doing sitting here with a man like this?
“So, besides the outdoors and audiobooks, what else are you into?”
We can’t possibly have any more in common, and I’m determined to prove it.
“I love pizza,” he blurts out.
My head cocks to the side. “Can pizza be considered a hobby?”