Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“I am very exclusive. But you know I’ll help you for free. Do you want that?” Isla asks, earnestly.
“Yes, tell us what we can do for you,” Everly adds.
Sabrina shrugs lightly, but her voice is upbeat. “I think the apps are probably fine.”
Fuck me. She’s into this. My muscles are as tight as a steel cable.
“I’m totally going to help you,” Isla announces. “I’m screening all your matches, and I’m giving you all the tips. I mean, I am a dating coach.”
Sabrina laughs.
But I don’t.
Because if I thought I was pissed off before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. I am not good at all. I’m going to blow a fuse.
I barely manage a quick goodnight to my kids before I storm out of the arena.
I drive home faster than I should, more aggressively than I’m supposed to—the way I’d never drive with my kids in the car. The way I shouldn’t drive.
I slam on the brakes at a red light, pissed and seething.
She’s going to date.
She’s going to date, and I’ll have to see it.
She’s going to date, and some other guy gets to romance her.
Worse.
Some other guy gets to give her all the things she asked me to give her on her wedding night.
I hate him with the fury of a thousand fiery hells.
When I reach the foyer, I kick off my shoes, strip off my tie, then pace along the first floor like a caged lion because I can’t fucking stand this jealousy clawing at me.
I don’t even go up to my room to change out of my suit. I’m too wound up.
I have to do something.
I have to find out what her plan is—so at least I can learn how to handle it.
I need to understand what she’s going to do so I can live with it.
The second the garage door rumbles, signaling she’s home too, I march to the top of the stairs to head her off before she can duck into her apartment for the night.
Once the door creaks open, I call out, “Do you want to watch a TV show?”
I’ve never asked her that before. But it’s a casual pretext. A way to find out more.
“Sure,” she says from the bottom of the stairs, a little tentative. “Let me just put my things down.”
“Good idea,” I say as nicely as I can, since I don’t want to lose this opening.
I beeline for the kitchen, toss my jacket onto a stool and yank off the tie. After I grab a bag of popcorn from the pantry, I dump the sea salt air-popped contents into a bowl.
There. That’s nice, right? I can be nice as I hunt for answers.
I bring it to the couch, set it on the table. A minute later, she pads into the living room in that pink sweater, with black leggings now and fuzzy socks.
Fuck, even her socks are cute.
White with pink hearts.
“What do you want to watch?” she asks curiously as she sits down, like she’s still trying to figure me out.
Join the club.
I grab the clicker, tune into Webflix, and hunt through shows on the main menu, trying my damnedest to ignore how pretty she smells.
Like orange blossoms and something clean.
Her shampoo, maybe?
Her lotion?
It’s flowery, and it’s scrambling my brain.
I can’t focus on the menu on the screen, so I hit something—I don’t even know what. As the credits roll on The Dating Games, I figure this will be the perfect show to ask her what’s next.
We’re silent during the opening scene.
It’s awkward since the two assistants who work together are walking on eggshells around each other at the office after hooking up the night before.
Then it’s even more tense when the woman meets her friends for coffee, and they ask if she’s going to see the guy again, and she hems and haws.
I grab a handful of popcorn and crunch down hard.
Sabrina reaches for some too and stares straight ahead.
We chew.
I stew.
One dating scene rolls into the next, and I can barely take it another second. And once the characters walk down the streets of New York City, gabbing about their worst swipe-right experiences, I snap my gaze to her, frustration boiling over.
“So, are you?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Sabrina looks at me, seeming confused, a cute little furrow digging into her brow, and I just want to touch it and kiss it.
And I’m so pissed that I feel this way as she asks, “Am I what?”
I hesitate, trying not to let annoyance and jealousy own me, as I say as calmly as I can, “Dating. Are you on the apps? Are you already seeing someone?”
But it doesn’t come out evenly at all. It comes out full of unchecked irritation. Bursting with green-eyed jealousy.
Her face tightens, but she’s not mean. She’s never mean, even as she folds her arms over her chest and looks away. “Why do you care?”