Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Because if my stare meets hers right now, we’re done dancing.
And talking.
And doing anything that isn’t fucking in the back bathroom.
We’re talkin’ a good old Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” shit.
Which would not be a very gentlemanly story to tell at our future wedding.
Which will happen.
Bet.
My future wife leads me backwards while quietly murmuring, “Shuffle, shuffle, slowww…slowww…Shuffle, shuffle, slowww…”
“Slowwww…” I say with her, our eyes finally locking once more.
Hextallknows I should probably slow shit down.
Smooth play it.
Treat the situation with a little more Otis.
Little less Boosty.
But what can I say?
When something is meant to be…it’s meant to be.
“B-52s,” announces Moose, forcing our gazes but not our hands to part.
And I’m more than alright with that.
“Named after the plane, not the rock band.”
“Pop,” I smoothly correct. “They were a pop band.”
“Pop rock,” argues the only other person in town that’s my height.
“They were no ABBA,” the woman I’m holding hands with innocently interjects, weakening my knees.
“Yup.” Using my free hand, I gently turn her face towards mine. “You will marry me.”
She isn’t given time to do more than giggle thanks to the male across the bar. “I mean…the guy’s already got the suit.”
More laughs lightly leave her, but an objection never does.
Because she knows it’s true.
Even if she’s not ready to admit it out loud just yet.
Our currently cupping hold transitions into a finger folded one as she asks, “What’s in this one?”
“Kahula – a coffee liqueur,” he points to the contents in our shot glasses during his explanation, “Irish cream – almost like a vanilla creamer,” the gesture moves up to the next layer, “topped with orange liqueur.” Moose casually folds his arms across his chest. “You can actually serve these flammin’ but Fire Marshall Burns is actually in the buildin’ tonight, already pissy we’re gettin’ close to capacity, so I’m tryin’ my damndest to stay off his radar.”
There’s something I don’t miss about living here.
The grudges people hold.
Particularly when you ditch their daughter at prom to bang a sorority girl in the backseat of her stepdaddy’s Range Rover.
“Do we sip it?” innocently investigates my dancing partner upon picking up the glass.
“Like the last moment in a shootout,” lifting my own beverage occurs next, “it’s one and done.”
We grin, clink, and toss back the sweet mixture in tandem.
Thankfully, hums of approval follow her finishing.
And unthankfully so does the painfully slow licking of her lips to capture the droplets that got missed.
Either my tongue should be doing the lapping or my cock should be enjoying that treatment.
I’m honestly fine with either of my buds being put in the game.
“That…” she slides the empty dish back to him, “I liked.”
My mouth lowers to express my agreement when a new, feminine voice interjects, “We need to go.”
What?
No.
She can’t go.
Not yet.
Not without another dance.
Or another drink.
Or me knowing the important piece of information I can’t believe I don’t already.
“Oh…” her outward disappointment mirrors my internal one. “You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s an annoyingly long drive back to downtown Highland, Aly’s already drunk as fuck, and our flight has the nerve to leave before the LMC in the airport even opens in the morning.” The woman I know will have my last name one of these days gets gently tugged out of my hold. “Chop, chop, gurl. I am not gonna be holding anybody’s hair back while they puke on a horse statue.”
Our fingers are almost completely done touching when I anxiously plead, “Give me your name?”
Despite her noticeable resistance to bailing, her friend keeps tugging. “You don’t want my number?”
“Your friend’s not really leavin’ time for the latter.”
“It’s Gillian.” Giggles grace me for the final time of the night, reminding me of the sound I look forward to hearing forever. “Gillian Blanc.”
Chapter 2
Gillian
All of my favorite things start with T.
Toffee lattes.
Telenovelas.
And – more relatively – Tuesdays.
I love Tuesdays the same amount that Garfield hated Mondays.
See, Mondays equal misery.
All the woes and whines of the weekend roll over and carelessly infect the first day of the week.
Basically, they pump it full of ache and decay that you can’t just simply brush away.
But Tuesdays?
Tuesdays equal opportunities.
They allow you to remove the infection and clean it out and seal it for safety.
They’re almost like a second chance to have a better beginning to the week you’re in.
And I adore second chances.
Likely because they always serve as pivotal plot moments on my favorite shows.
It’s the reason why I rarely do anything other than paperwork on Mondays.
Paperwork I can do from home.
On the comfort of my own sofa.
While listening to whatever drama – spy or Spanish – I’m currently binging or in some cases…rebinging.
Entering the front office area of Victory Teeth, my dentistry practice, barely proceeds Rhonda Todd, my patient service lead, dramatically sighing, “Ohthankgod, Doc, I did not feel like walking my ass all the way back there to bring you this.” One set of her dark, cacao colored fingertips nudge the toffee latte towards me while the other aids in holding her own cup. “You should know it was that twelve-year-old gerbil squeaking child that can’t count to five who made it rather than that fine ass Alex Cross lookin’ mofo that we both know can get it any day that ends in y.”