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)
“Besides, hotel bar, dive bar. Doesn’t matter. You’ll have to feign laryngitis because you know what that accent does to women, especially over there. Panties dropping left and right! Add in the James Bond getup, and they’ll be like bees to a honey pot.”
“There won’t be a woman under sixty where I’m heading.”
“Big panties, then.” The bastard laughs. “Except it’s Saturday night,” he adds in an all-knowing and very fucking annoying tone. “Which means the ladies will come tottering out on their spiky heels in short, short dresses, looking for cheap pre-drinks before they hit the cocktail bars.”
God give me strength . . .
“And who knows, maybe among that crowd is the girl for you, dreaming of a house in the burbs and a half dozen snot-nosed kids. It could all start tonight.”
Reaching my destination, I put my hand to the door handle and pause as an image of just that flashes in my head. Love and family. It’s what we were put on the earth for, surely. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I yank on the door handle, my mood not improved.
The interior is dark and the place pretty quiet, just a few old fellas hunched over glasses at the bar or staring up at TVs playing a game I’ve no interest in. The bartender turns, acknowledging me with a nod. I was here yesterday. He knows what I’m drinking.
“Come on, Matías. There’s beauty in the spontaneous. Even magic sometimes.”
“How’s this for magic,” I say, already pulling the phone from my ear. “Watch as I make you disappear.” And I do just that as I end the call.
I don’t need this from him. I already have a sister and a mother hounding me about my love life.
Ma: Why can’t you find yourself a nice girl, Matías?
Leticia: How come you’re the only one of your friends not married?
Ma: Such a handsome face (while she squeezes the cheeks from my skull). Why does no one else love it?
“Jaysus,” I mutter. Slotting away my phone, I rub my hand over my taut jaw. I think I must be really feckin’ nice to put up with Fin’s bullshit.
I wasn’t lying. I am over casual relationships, one-night stands, and booty calls. I don’t want to wake up next to some woman whose name I can’t remember and hustle her out the door before she realizes, making us both feel like shit. And I can’t admit to Fin that I’m envious of him. I mean, I’m happy for him, but I reckon I’m also allowed to feel a bit sorry for myself.
What I want is forever. The fairy tale, I think with a derisive snort.
I’m so lost in the bog of my thoughts that I don’t immediately realize someone has stepped between me and the bar. At least, not until something hits me in the center of my chest.
“What the . . .”
My first thought is to offer an apology—Sorry, I didn’t see you there on account of you being the size of a flea. But I don’t get to do that, as she opens her mouth and declares loudly and very pointedly:
“You’re late.”
Chapter 2
Matt
“I’m sorry?”
My gaze slices up from the slender hand and perfectly manicured nails to find fierce blue eyes on mine. Typical man that I am, I take a quick but thorough inventory of the serious—and seriously pretty—woman currently accosting me. She’s tiny and angry looking, like a bantam rooster. Striking like one too. Her hair is dark, glossy, and expertly styled. Jade-colored silk skims generous curves, her lips are painted plum, and her cheeks are highlighted by a subtle but shimmery hint. Sure, she’s a tiny but pretty package. Though she’s not happy about . . . something.
“We agreed to meet at seven, and even that was pushing it.”
Pretty. Feisty. And confused.
My answer is a startled cough as she grabs my wrist and turns in the direction of the door, her wrap dress flaring to reveal a flash of toned, tan leg. Though her fingers and thumb don’t meet, she’s got some grip on her as she tries to tug me along. Tries being the operative word.
She makes a noise of frustration as her attention swings abruptly back. Something flickers in her expression, and I get the sense she changes her response a split second before the words leave her mouth.
“Glad to see the suit turned out okay.” Her tone is almost begrudging as her gaze flicks over me. “The cuff links are a nice touch.”
“Thanks?” I think?
“Tiffany knockoffs?”
“Graff, actually.” And not knockoffs, thank you very much.
Her gaze lifts from the white gold knot, and as our eyes meet, something electric slides down my spine. It feels like recognition, not that we’ve met before and not that I have time to ponder the effect as she flicks the cuff link with her nail.