Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she declared. “I suppose, cutting you some slack, you don’t need to be around for that?”
“No,” he ground out.
“Awesome,” she snapped.
And then she marched out of the room, every muscle in her body screaming she was pissed off.
Or hurt.
Fantastic.
Mo drew in another breath through his nose.
Then he finished his breakfast and cleaned the kitchen.
CHAPTER 5
TRADING UP
Lottie
Things did not go well after Mo was a supreme asshole.
If I wanted to look on the Brightside (which I did not), him making it plain how fuckable he thought I was, was not a bad thing.
Him completely missing the pass I was throwing at him was.
I mean, did he honestly think I was wearing my nightie making breakfast with a man I hadn’t slept with just so I could be a huge-ass tease?
No!
I wanted the big lug to ask me out.
Jerk.
Asshole.
Fuckface.
Obviously, considering I was an adult, I realized a route to rectifying this situation was to explain where I was at, and considering he thought I was fuckable, he’d probably get with the program.
Fat chance of that.
I couldn’t be an adult at the best of times, even actually being an adult.
Sure. I got to work on time.
I paid my bills.
I kept my house.
I got oil changes when I was supposed to (though I thought that was a huge scam, every three months? come on).
What I did not do, for three days, was talk to Mo.
Yeah.
Not very adult.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly true.
We talked because I was my mother’s daughter. I couldn’t start my day with someone in my house silently trailing me and not offer him coffee.
So I’d said, “Coffee?” to him the next two mornings after he’d been a consummate jackass.
Other than that…
No.
Why?
Two reasons.
One, I was the kind of woman who held a grudge. I just did. I knew that wasn’t right. It had cost me friendships and boyfriends and maybe I should work on that.
But not with Mo.
Oh no.
Not with Mo.
Two, because he didn’t like strippers.
That was clear.
He might have been diplomatic during our first talk, though he had indicated he had a problem with it.
And he was not mean to the girls at Smithie’s.
He was also not friendly.
Then of course there was that part of his outburst, the part I liked the best (not), where he’d said, Every night, you dance, and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it.
He thought I got off on it.
And okay, if I took a second to calm down and reflect (which I did not), there might be something about that.
It still wasn’t cool he threw it in my face and the way he did.
But I knew that about myself.
I liked attention.
When I was younger, I went to LA to become an actress.
I ended up Queen of the Corvette Calendar because, first, how kickass was that? And second, I sucked at acting. And last, there was an operative word in that title.
Queen.
My sister was quiet and sweet and responsible and hardworking, and everyone adored her.
But I was not any of that. Not even close.
This wasn’t sibling rivalry.
At least (if I was honest), not anymore.
And Jet didn’t get all the attention, but everyone around us made sure she (and thus I) knew how awesome she was for being sweet and responsible and hardworking.
“Oh, what a good girl she is, looking after that wild sister of hers while Nancy’s at work,” and, “Oh, it just breaks my heart Jet had to get a job so she could help her momma out with the bills.”
That said, years ago (around about the time we were in a room when bullets were flying), I’d grown up enough to see that my sister didn’t have it all that great, what with our not-so-stellar life with a deadbeat dad who kept us all on a string with fancy plans and big promises.
I also saw how responsible and hardworking she’d had to be and that she’d sacrificed a lot for me.
I appreciated it.
And I loved her for it.
I also moved on.
From that.
Not so much the fact our dad was a loser.
And I was honest enough with myself I knew that I was that girl who needed to be daddy’s little girl. Daddy’s princess. His sun and moon and stars. The girl he threatened all her boyfriends so they wouldn’t hurt her, but mostly he was working out his issues because he didn’t want to let her go. The girl he choked up about when he gave her away at her wedding.
Our dad had gotten his shit together.
But I would never fully trust it, and that was part of my plight, and his punishment.
Because all of what I’d needed when I was a little girl and growing up was lost to me.
I could never again be five and walking through the fair with my hand in my father’s and have him cry, “Gotta get some cotton candy for my best girl!” making me feel loved, treasured, safe, protected…