Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“It’s just coffee.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It’s a hypothetical.”
We fall quiet, though she turns her head, anticipating more, as I inhale.
“I will say we parted on good terms.” Not a lie, because I thought we did.
“That must be nice. Not wanting to murder the person you used to love.”
I make a noncommittal noise in lieu of an answer. I can’t say I ever loved her, but I liked her enough to go to her wedding. Liked, past tense.
“You’re a nice guy. For doing this, I mean. But I’ve still got to pay you.”
I glance sharply her way.
“You just said this is a date, which I guess is a euphemism for a booking,” she says, lowering her voice as a group of twentysomethings passes the other way.
“Are you saying you’d like to make a booking?” My tone is low and suggestive as the devil takes hold of my tongue.
“Yeah. Yes. I mean, not like that.” Her cheeks turn so adorably pink. “I want to pay you, but not for—”
“Fringe benefits?” The horror on her face as I draw out that first sound. How I manage not to crack up with laughter, I have no feckin’ idea.
“Exactly. Those. That.” Her pitch climbs adorably with each word, making her sound Southern for some reason. “What I mean is, I should pay you for your time.”
“Thanks, but this one’s on me.” I wish, I think absurdly. “On the house.” Instead of my fingers, my cock, and my face.
“That’s not right. I make good money. I paid Cuddle Carl—I can afford to pay you.”
“Except I’m not the kind of man you can hire for a couple hours.”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” She nods, embarrassed. And that makes me feel a little bit shit. “So how long is your—”
Wanna suck it and see? Thankfully, the ’80s porn star voice and stupidity stay in my head.
“—usual appointment time?” she asks, oblivious to where my imagination has taken this. Taken us.
“That all depends on the circumstances. Not that it matters on this occasion.”
“I’m not a charity case,” she snaps. “Come on. How much is the boyfriend experience?”
The boyfriend experience, Jaysus. What alternative universe is this?
“Why, are you interested?” I ask smoothly instead. Which is better than asking if that’s with or without socks littering the bedroom floor, I suppose.
“I guess I can see the attraction.” With the deft sidestep, her gaze briefly slides over me.
“Aside from the obvious?” I find I quite like being objectified. By Ryan, at least.
“I mean, it’s like you said earlier. All the benefits and none of the bullshit.”
And there goes my ego, farting through the air like a burst balloon.
“His bullshit?” The ex’s?
“Relationship bullshit. Infatuation. The rush. The relationship,” she says, making an upward motion of her hand. “Big love,” she adds as it levels out. Then a downward curve. “Rejection. Confusion. Breakup. Heartache.”
“When you put it that way.” Why do we bother—any of us? But then I think of Fin and Oliver and how love has completely turned their lives around. How their priorities have changed to include the happiness of another and how that seems to make them happier in turn. “But you missed some stuff.”
She gives an adorable scrunch of her nose. “Sex? I don’t miss having sex. Besides, I can meet my own needs. When necessary.”
Now that is something I’d pay to see. Preferably sitting very close, breathing in the heat from her skin. “I meant laughter and fun. Respect. Good times. Mutual pleasures?”
“Not worth the risk,” she says, her words barely audible.
“Right.” That fucker really did a number on her. “You said I was nice,” I say, rerouting the conversation. “So let me be exactly that tonight. Let me do this for you. Let me fawn all over you like Cupid shot me a good one.”
“Why?” She sounds genuinely confused.
“For the narrative. In support of the lies you’ve had to tell. And on behalf of decent men everywhere. We’re not all arseholes, you know.”
“I know,” she retorts unconvincingly.
“And maybe because I’m also in the mood to crack a few heads.”
She laughs. I don’t join in.
“It’s just a pack-mentality thing,” she says, her fingers shifting on my arm.
“Law of the jungle? You don’t really believe that.”
“Look, I just know what happens to the gazelle outside the pack. She gets looked on as lame.”
“You must really like your job.”
“Yeah, I do. Do you enjoy yours?” she demands.
“I’m having fun now.”
“Well, that’s good, but I don’t need the macho kind of help. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I have plans. I want to make a name for myself, but not that kind of name. So bring on Cupid, but leave the tough stuff to me. Please.” The latter seems like an afterthought.
“Fine.” We fall quiet for a beat before I find myself saying, “I don’t know how you can stand it. An afternoon in the company of my ex was enough for me.”