Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
“There’s no mind here to change,” is instantly declared. “No part of me wants any part of you.” My head tilts condescendingly to one side, allowing my dark strands to brush my white, classic Uhura tank top covered shoulder. “And I do mean no part of me, Wheeler.”
That’s typically the hard sell for most of my exes.
Guess it’s my fault for allowing them to stay past their contract dates simply to have someone I could call on when I needed a round in the sack to blow off post work steam.
Being jobless is an easy – albeit awful – fix to that issue.
Which is kind of my style like crop tops and tank tops.
To no surprise, he attempts to argue, “But-”
“There you are, beloved,” interrupts my dirty blond, fake – yet very real feeling – boyfriend during his entering of the row from the right side. “Apologies for being so late I couldn’t sit beside you.” As if in his arms are the only place I’ve ever belonged, he slides one along the small of my back so that his fingers can possessively clamp down on my hip. “I keep telling myself these crises will lessen post launch next month, but I’m starting to think that’s just an unfortunate coping mechanism to deal with the constant, poorly timed calls.”
“Likely,” I lovingly tease up at him to further sell the bit.
Alright, so, yeah.
Convincing a totally hot stranger at a Star Trek fan convention to pretend to be my boyfriend wasn’t the best top of the pyramid idea I could’ve concocted; however, it wasn’t the worst.
And you know what?
I blame my brother.
Had he been doing his part in our sibling getaway rather than letting his part do the doing then using a stranger like a cheap escort wouldn’t have been necessary!
But…admittedly…I kinda like the stranger.
The stranger who is a little less of a stranger now.
We met, scared off Wheeler, learned we’re both from Highland, and then shared a single drink while engaging in “Cadet Testing” – bar trivia – which began five minutes post our drinks arriving.
And despite my ex never popping back up, we continued to totally lean into our fake coupling for the rest of the night.
I liked leaning against him.
He liked having his arm draped around my shoulder.
And clearly, we both liked holding hands hence why we did it during the walk back to my room where I wanted to invite him in, consummate the pretend relationship, and burn off a bit of the lingering resentment over being turned down for another choreographer gig.
Not that I really wanted to work behind the scenes on that reality show.
No.
What I want to do is cheer in the league.
Sadly, that’s no longer an option.
However, I’d be happy to take over training and choreographing for my old team.
That actually is a possibility.
You know.
If they ever call me for a second audition.
“We were in the middle of a private convo, man,” Wheeler unhappily grumps. “Mind if we finish?”
“Can’t,” leaves me before J.T. has to even consider creating an excuse. “We’ve got a holodeck tee-time coming up.”
“I love that they chose glow-in-the-dark mini golf to represent that,” the man whose hold I can’t stop myself from leaning into declares.
“Sames!”
“I’ve got one within the hour too,” my ex casually informs. “Guess I’ll just have to find an opening to squeeze into.”
“Won’t be one,” J.T. firmly states.
“Hm,” hums Wheeler as he slowly retreats backwards for the exit, “we’ll see.”
Once he’s no longer within listening distance, I lock eyes with my sweet-faced savior and plead, “Please, tell me this doesn’t ruin your lunch plans.”
“Not at all.” His thumb delivers a soothing stroke to the skin underneath it. “I like any chance I get to spend more time with you.”
“I like that too.”
“Plus,” he proceeds at the same time he retrieves his vibrating cell from his board shorts pocket, “I like the fact I actually get to do the Voyager activity I had to miss doing earlier because of my vacay partner who is literally going to have the Grim Reaper cussing at his watch on the day of her death because she can’t tell time.”
“Fuck off, Puppet Boy,” a feminine voice unexpectedly huffs, redirecting my attention away from his texting to where she’s now standing. “I can tell time. You just can’t stop working.”
“I can stop working,” mutters the male beside me, finger frantically racing across the keys.
“Totally,” mocks the almost intimidatingly beautiful woman on the other side prior to extending her light mocha brown skinned hand in my direction, “Bryn.”
“Nae,” is attached to our polite shaking.
This is the best friend he’s here on vacation with?!
Look, I don’t scare easy, especially in the looks department – because I would’ve never become one of the highest paid cheerleaders in the NBA or a celebrity style icon if I had – but this chick is fucking stunning.