Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
"I don't hate people." I'm apathetic toward most people. I have a strong aversion to groups of them. There's a difference.
"Yeah?" He quirks a brow. "Name three people you don't hate."
"Hattie, Vanessa, and Tye."
"Damn." He chuckles again. "I didn't even make the list?"
I just shrug, smirking at him as I scoop my bag from the floor. "You said three. I picked my favorites. Not my fault that you didn't make the cut."
He scratches the side of his face with his middle finger, but he's not offended. Nothing much offends Briggs. Nothing except our mother, anyway. It's not like I blame him for that. She offends the hell out of me, too.
If it weren't for Hattie, we would have cut her out a long time ago. Fortunately, we've corrected that oversight. That woman is officially where she belongs now—out of our lives. So long as she continues to leave Hattie alone, we intend to keep it that way.
"She isn't going to try to show up, is she?" I ask, not entirely convinced she'll behave. The woman can't resist being the center of attention. I wouldn't put it past her to try to show up and make a scene, just to ruin Hattie's weekend.
Briggs knows who I'm talking about. "Nope," he says, completely confident. "Tye already warned the staff not to let her through the doors if she does show her face. And I made a point to stop by her place before I caught a flight."
"How'd that go?"
"I don't think she's willing to risk the public humiliation that I promised would follow if she shows her ass or comes anywhere near Hattie or anything wedding-related."
"Good," I grunt. I'll be damned if our mother ruins Hattie's wedding for her like she's ruined every other goddamn thing in her life. "I'm going to…" I trail off, my eyes locking on a brunette descending the stairs on the opposite side of the room.
Christ Almighty. Sophie.
Sophie has always been beautiful. Every time I see her on some magazine cover, on my feed, or in the news, it's like a punch to the gut. I'm not a man who says much in general, but silence hits different when your brain is stuck on some level of stupid where words don't even exist.
Seeing her in person again has me living on that level.
Her dark hair is pinned on top of her head, with curls floating free around her heart-shaped face. Her green eyes are dark and smoky, her cheeks pink. The red dress she's wearing clings to her curvy body like a second skin, shimmering in the light as she practically glides down the stairs.
She's so fucking graceful. There's no mistaking that she's a dancer. Every move is music. Every move is fascinating. And every single one has my dick pressing up against my zipper, aching like a son of a bitch.
I know I'm staring. I know I should stop.
I also know there isn't a chance in hell of that happening.
I've been fascinated by Sophie since we met at Hattie's engagement party a few months ago. Sliding into her DMs a week later was the best decision I ever made.
I've spent the time since learning everything I could about her—like the fact that she's snarky as hell, hates her dance partner, and takes no shit from anyone. She's also one of the funniest people alive, she's soft as silk even though she tries to hide it, and she works harder than I can even comprehend.
I was close—so fucking close—to convincing her that she wanted to be more than friends. But I may or may not have fucked that up.
Either she senses my gaze on her, or her eyes just happen to shift in my direction because our eyes meet. I'm rooted in place, completely captivated.
She does not have the same problem.
Her lips pull down into a deep frown, her eyes narrowing. She looks at me like she's looking at shit on her shoe. I'm not entirely surprised when she lifts her chin in the air and turns her face away, as if she's dismissing me from existence. Truthfully, the only thing that surprises me is that she didn't flip me off first.
"Damn," Briggs whistles beside me. "What the fuck did you do to piss her off?"
"Don't know," I mutter… but that's not entirely true. I know exactly what I did.
I opened my big ass mouth and insulted her profession. At least, that's how the article made it sound when they published the part of my statement where I said ballerinas weren't athletes, but left out the parts where I explained that they were something far more beautiful than that.
Less than twenty-four hours after it dropped, she blocked me on social media. As soon as I tried to call to explain, she blocked my number, too.
It's been two weeks, and she's frozen me out completely.