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)
“You.” Dubs warmly chuckles during a headshake. “You are where he,” his chin kicks to Bronny, “gets it from.”
Maybe.
Probably.
Definitely.
I don’t really have time for that discussion right now, but let’s hope she doesn’t cancel our date tonight to give me it.
Chapter 5
Gillian
I don’t know what’s making me more uncomfortable, going on a date with a guy so much younger than me or my tits spilling out of this deep, red, plush, formfitting, off the shoulder velvet dress Aly and Kira talked me into buying yesterday.
Correction.
Not so much talked me into buying but out of not buying by reminding me that I only own one other date dress.
Which – apparently – isn’t enough.
Especially for a single person.
You know…the whole girly…friendly…wardrobe…makeover scene looks a lot more fun in my telenovelas and spy dramas than it is in real life.
Most things worth looking at weren’t in my size.
There were no fun and carefree employees to referee their bickering.
And most importantly, I didn’t get a magical “this is it”, cue the change in music moment.
No.
I got a “can we wrap this up ‘cause Lionel forgot to grab our son from his piano lesson again” frame cut.
Perhaps the nightmare shopping experience should’ve been my sign not to come on this date?
This date that he pushed back by an hour.
Maybe that should’ve been my red flag that convinced me to cancel.
Come to my senses.
Gently reject the behemoth of a man who probably can’t spell behemoth because it wasn’t on this week’s spelling test.
Gahhhhhh…what am I doing?!
Did someone spike my white mocha with benzos?!
Am I suffering from paradoxical side effects?!
Vibrations rattle my small black clutch prompting me to quickly check the device causing them.
Unfortunately for me, the photo of my nieces and nephew splashing around in the beach water with my big brother only reinforces the idea of retreating.
Of getting back into my car.
Going home.
Ditching this dress.
Reclaiming my couch.
Curling up and watching old episodes of The Mentalist or Person of Interest where I can simply get lost in their complicated, romantic storylines versus trying to untangle my own.
“Wow,” breathlessly coos a voice that never fails to make my knees wobble. “You look like the lyrics come to life of a Four Tops song.”
It’s impossible not to beam brightly at the suspender wearing mountain of a man as he arrives directly in front of me. “And which one in particular are you thinking about?”
“’Can’t Help Myself’ would be the easy glove save,” Thayne casually proclaims, grin growing and growing and growing, encouraging the warmth in my chest to spread like wildfire, “and ‘Baby I Need Your Loving’ would be a respectable block. Hell, even ‘Ain’t No Woman’ could get me a stick taps from the boys…” One hand nonchalantly captures my empty palm. “But I’m gonna go for the butterfly.”
“And that is…?”
“We talkin’ for hockey or for song choices?”
“I know what it is in hockey,” I sassily state back. “Knees down, feet flared but not tucked towards the ass because that makes it difficult to control the rebound.”
His white dress shirt covered torso slightly crumbles. “You tryin’ to get me to propose already, Gillybean?”
“You got a ring?”
“I will find the nearest store right now.” He slyly lifts my hand up to plant a kiss on the back of it. “Don’t threaten me with Hall & Oates.”
The reference to “You Make My Dreams Come True” leads to my head shaking in amusement. “You’re like a seven-foot walking, talking, puck blocking Jukebox.”
“I’m only six-five.”
Giggling at his correction is rewarded with another kiss on the back of my hand.
“And the butterfly save would be ‘Nature Planned It’.”
Catching my jaw from falling to the ground is impossible. “How the hell do you even know that song?”
“You said it yourself, beautiful.” Delicious smugness sliding through his stare has me biting my red stained lip. “I’m a walking, talking, puck blocking Jukebox.”
“I’m gonna call you Jukes.”
“And I’m gonna love every fuckin’ minute of it.” An arrogant wink precedes him pulling on the frame of the random 1920’s, outdoor hallway painting I had been waiting beside. “Shall we?”
Not only am I surprised the giant portrait is actually a door, I’m also completely amazed by the unexpected establishment we enter. The tin tile style roof combined with the Gatsby inspired Art Deco furniture and the prohibition approved bar all work seamlessly together to create a truly hidden gem in The Sphere, the high dollar district located right outside of downtown Dalvegan on the opposite end of The Locker District.
Kira loves this area.
My credit card?
Not so much.
Come on now.
Who wants to pay $18.99 for a wedge salad?
But I guess it’s my fault for not speaking up?
For not actually suggesting something when she asks where I wanna go for lunch?
The door hasn’t even finished closing behind us when an attractive, muscular, older male steps in front of us to ensure we don’t continue inward until our presence has been properly verified. “Password?”