Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Skylar wasn’t a club person. She was the “drink a gallon of water, get a lot of sleep, and wake up refreshed” type. But she envied the creativity it took to start with Eve’s father’s no-frills strip club and build something like the Gilded Garden out of it. To have a vision for something so fantastical and make it happen.
Her surroundings only drove home the fact that Skylar and Eve had opposing personalities. Perhaps they never even would have been friends, except for the day in middle school Skylar had overheard Joe Logan asking Eve if she planned on stripping at her father’s club after graduation, because he’d be first in line to pay the cover charge. Skylar might have left her defense of Eve as a simple shut up and leave her alone, Joe.
Then she’d witnessed Joe pinch Eve’s butt.
Skylar decked him, instead.
Well worth the three-day suspension during which Eve had arrived at the front door of the Page household with a stack of Skylar’s homework. She’d gone and collected it from all of Skylar’s teachers, saving Skylar from having to do the legwork upon her return to school.
“Are we even?” Eve had asked, stone-faced.
Skylar had propped her shoulder against the doorjamb, pretending to think about it. “No, I’m pretty sure I still owe you. I’ve wanted to punch that fucker for years.”
They’d been inseparable from that day forward.
Eve attended all of Skylar’s softball games, though she read a book in the stands and didn’t participate in the chants or cheers. Skylar did her homework with Eve in the office of the strip club, too, from time to time, though she’d wisely omitted that truth from her parents.
Skylar crossed the half-full lounge to the ornate black-and-gold bar, intending to order a Sprite. Somehow the words “vodka tonic” came out of her mouth, instead.
And didn’t she deserve a stiff drink or two after this afternoon?
Robbie was not coming back.
She knew that in her gut, the way she knew the sound of a home run as soon as it connected with the bat. The knowledge that she’d given up a home run usually filled her with the same type of hollow dread. This felt different, however. Not simply disappointment in herself and a growing drive to do better next time. More like a horrible sense that she’d missed something or hadn’t paid enough attention. The feeling also happened to be more concentrated in her chest than usual, too. A horribly uncomfortable sensation that made her desperate to numb the feeling. Or better yet, get rid of it entirely.
Not easy when she could still feel Robbie’s fist in her hair, his lips skating up the side of her neck. The possessive way he’d licked her. Kissed her. Bit her.
“What the heck,” Skylar whispered into her first sip of the lime-laced cocktail. Thank God for the way it burned on the way down, distracting her from the heat she still felt everywhere else. Annoying heat that only seemed to multiply her confusion.
Why did she have to be so attracted to Robbie?
Did he kiss every girl like that? In a way that was starved and conflicted at the same time? What had caused his sudden need to leave (apart from her highly functioning dysfunctional family, that is)? And most importantly, why did the thought of never seeing him again put her in a state of mourning?
God, she almost felt . . . disoriented from the sudden loss of his chuckle—
“Skylar,” someone said to her right. “Hey.”
No, not someone. Madden.
Madden was there. In the Gilded Garden. His dark hair had turned blue black in the lighting, his jaw set with tension, along with his wide shoulders. So handsome. Almost . . . debonair in black jeans and a fitted white T-shirt.
When a weighted flop would normally happen in her belly at the sight of him, so tall and intense, now Skylar only experienced a tiny zing that translated mostly as . . . fondness? The events of the day had obviously taken a lot out of her if she was too spent to get excited at the sight of her forever crush in such a romantic setting, right? The alcohol could be to blame, too, of course.
“What are you doing here?” she asked Madden.
He shoved both hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Elton mentioned you were coming to see Eve tonight.”
“Okay . . .”
“I thought I might join you.”
Two, three seconds ticked by during which she tried to make sense of that answer. Had he come . . . because he wanted to spend time with her? As a friend? Or . . . more?
She didn’t have time to dissect his behavior because he pulled out a hammered brass stool for her, then himself, signaling the bartender with a curt nod. Somehow the man seemed to know his drink by heart, sliding a frothy beer in front of Madden within seconds. Was the guy a psychic or something? Or had Madden been here before?