Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
I snap my fingers, and Charlie’s ears perk up. He follows my silent instruction to come join me, then sits.
“You’re supposed to be retired. Find a better hobby than my damn dating life,” I snarl. “It’s beneath you, old man.”
I snap my fingers again for the corgi, and we’re already moving. I barely remember to grab Charlie’s leash before I slam the door.
“Now look what you’ve done . . .” Mom says miserably as I leave the room.
I ignore them both and take the long, winding staircase two at a time to the entryway, waiting for Charlie to catch up on his stubby legs.
Luis, my assistant, is walking in through a side door. And Luis being Luis, he immediately notices the look on my face.
“Again?” he whispers.
“Yes. Selfish fuck.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath.
The truth is, Dad’s an old-school jackass, but he’s not entirely wrong. That almost makes it worse.
“What was it this time?”
“The usual lecture I’ve heard a thousand times. I need to get my shit together and stop fucking everything that moves.” I snort.
Luis rolls his eyes.
“You’d think they’d find better things to get on your back about.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. Assistant or not, there are days when Luis doubles as my best friend. We’ve known each other for years, though Dad likes to call him my “handler.”
Because he’s such a comedian.
“I should’ve kept hooking up with that model last year just to throw it in his face,” I say.
“Can’t argue with that. She was a baddie,” Luis says with a laugh.
“To you, horny asshole.”
“You said it first.”
I blow out a long breath. The fact is, I know I’ve fucked up, and I don’t get the luxury of living down my mistakes.
At the time, I was doing well. I hadn’t partied for years or flaunted actresses and models hanging on my arm.
I thought it was casual enough. No big deal, a couple nights without consequence, but she misread the situation.
Then she went nuclear on social media after I said I wasn’t interested in anything more serious. I became the techbro YouTuber heartbreaker king of assholery every young woman in America loved to despise overnight.
It was the usual social media flash in the pan, sure, instantly forgotten once the next drama bomb exploded. But it was enough.
Bye, reputation.
My parents were livid.
“Nothing wrong with a little fun,” Luis says. “But you should probably vet their history first. Background checks, NDAs . . . that chick was slamming her exes like a psycho since she was seventeen. Did you know?”
“No, Luis. Didn’t think I’d need to get a shrink’s assessment for a damn hookup.”
He chuckles and shrugs. “Man, that’s what you get for being rich and famous. Everything has a cost.”
He mimes fishing.
“Goddamn, remind me to never let you moonlight as my wingman.”
“Since when do you need it? Is there a raise for protecting you from crazy chicks?”
“Oh, fuck off.” I laugh, though, because he’s not wrong.
Fallout aside, I’ve never struggled with finding dates, hookups, whatever I please.
Money makes up for whatever I might lack in the common sense department. The second a girl hears my name is Pruitt, they’re interested.
I could have a face like a vampire bat, and they’d still queue up around the block for their crack at landing a ring from Prince Charming.
Sometimes, it’s depressing.
Mostly, it’s just a distraction. A biological urge like scratching dry skin so I can get the hell back to work.
Luis claps me on the shoulder. “All set to take the best boy home? I’ve got the car waiting.”
I nod, following him outside and helping Charlie into the back seat next to me.
“Image management doesn’t have to be pure torture, you know,” he says, glancing at me as he adjusts the rearview mirror.
I shake my head. “Tell me you haven’t spent time with Nancy Loomer without telling me you haven’t spent time with Nancy Loomer.”
He wags his eyebrows. “You think I’d mind? She’s hot enough.”
“Dude, if you knew her personality was hot trash, you’d reconsider.” For all his joking, I know he likes girls with more substance.
Nancy wouldn’t know substance if it beaned her on the nose like a softball. She’d care more about having to fix her makeup.
“I might,” he agrees.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one under the gun to propose to her.”
“Jesus, is she really that bad?”
“Worse,” I say flatly. “It’s not like I didn’t give her a fair shake. Hell, the last four or five times we went out, I gave her every chance to prove me wrong. Show me there could ever be a spark.”
Instead, all she proved was that she was spoiled rotten.
Everything had to be just so, or she’d freak.
Tapas and wine menus. The cloud cover on a chartered day cruise out of Lake Union. No greyhounds at the dog rescue event I sponsored from a local shelter because they “freak her out”—and you’d best believe I vetoed that one.