Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
We weep because it’s glorious.
We weep because we know there can be no truer way than this.
We weep because we wish the world could be a finer, gentler place where love like this was the rule, not the exception.
We weep because the most beautiful babysitter a man ever had won’t let him pleasure her into half a dozen orgasms, feed her ice cream in the bath, make her laugh until she snorts water out of her nose, and show her that we’re fucking perfect for each other.
But maybe…
Just maybe, I’m wrong about that.
Because fifteen minutes later, when we’re finally allowed to adjourn to the air-conditioned ballroom for dancing, drinks, and eventual cake, I’ve barely shucked my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and downed half an icy beer when Makena is suddenly there.
Right in front of me.
Looking sexy as fuck in a peach bridesmaid dress with a hint of runny mascara still under her eyes and a determined expression on her face.
“What do you want, woman?” I murmur, soft and low, jumping right back into that conversation she bailed on seven months ago.
“Dance with me.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor. The band’s playing “White Wedding,” a weird choice in light of all the romance in the air, but the dirty, chaotic energy suits us just fine.
Makena and I dance like lunatics. Intense. Wild. Holding nothing back, making every person who bops by us laugh, and several people whip out their phones to record our “routine.”
But it’s not a routine, it’s just my particular flavor of crazy meeting her particular flavor and making something weirdly and wonderfully beautiful. It’s entertaining. And fun. And exactly the cathartic rush of energy I needed to banish all the heavy “musings on love in a hopeless world” shit weighing me down after the ceremony.
It seems to be exactly what she needs, too. Because when “White Wedding” gives way to “Rock the Kasbah,” we keep the party going.
We dance until we’re sweaty again, and they finally play a slow song, and then she’s in my arms, her head on my chest, making my soul ache again as the plaintive strains of “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner fill the ballroom.
I want to know what love is, too.
And I really want her to show me.
We dance and dance, breaking only to toast the bride and groom, stuff cake in our mouths, and suck down a vodka and cranberry with a splash of lemon that’s nowhere near as good as a Trash Panda, before we get back on the dance floor.
We close out the night at two a.m., alongside the last men and women standing. Long after Elly and Grammercy have left on their long-delayed honeymoon, his brother Grant and his pack of kids have headed to their hotel room, and Beanie and Schwartz have taken Mimi back to Beanie’s place.
Because even Beanie is getting laid more often than I am.
Grammercy’s agent fucking sold his house in L.A. and moved to NOLA to shack up with his mom. And I’m glad for her. I am. According to Grammercy, Beanie’s never had the love a fine ass woman like her deserves.
I hope Schwartz delivers.
But I hope Makena gives me the chance to deliver even more.
So far, we haven’t said a word after those first two sentences. Not a single word. Not with our lips, anyway. But her eyes on mine, her head on my chest, her fingers gripping my hand tight as she pulls me through the kitchen after the last dance is through…they’ve all told me I’m not crazy.
There’s something here between us.
Something undeniable.
We slip out through the double doors at the back of the kitchen, and the night hits us like a slap in the face. It’s pouring rain, fucking pouring, the kind of hot and heavy drops that only come from a Louisiana summer sky. The alley is empty, surprisingly clean, and lit only by a single flickering lamp by the back door.
But there’s plenty of light to see the way the rain plasters Makena’s dress to her skin as she steps out into the downpour. The way it makes that peach silk so transparent, I can instantly make out the outline of her nipples beneath the fabric.
Christ, she’s sexy as fuck, so hot I have to work to rip my gaze back to her face when she finally speaks.
“I’m so mad at you,” she says, raising her voice to be heard over the rain slapping at the pavement.
I blink. “Wait, what? Why?”
“Because you live rent-free in my head, road meat,” she says, the longing in her eyes taking the sting out of the words. “Seven and a half months, Parker. Seven and a half months and I still can’t stop thinking about your stupid lips and your stupid face and the way you looked at me like I’ve always wanted someone to look at me and—”