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)
Because that’s not happening with half a dozen drinks. Not even ten, and I’m a lightweight who can’t pound it back like I used to.
The only reason I agreed to see Brady Pruitt is not his smoking hot body or the way his eyes felt magnetic when he asked me out.
Nothing to do with his mile-wide shoulders or the softness of his thick, dark hair or the scruff of shadow around his lips that could melt any red-blooded woman with a single scrape.
Still, I hate that I even had to think about what to wear to my next mistake.
When I get there, he’s on time, seated and waiting at the bar with one hand raised as soon as he sees me.
The place is crowded. More than usual for a breezy Wednesday evening, but then again, I don’t usually go out midweek. Not since Elle married herself off to a god and my other friends fell into careers where they live at the office.
In the corner, a few college guys hoot about something, clustered around one guy’s phone. Work colleagues in their business wear gather around another table, slowly swirling their wineglasses in idle conversation.
The best part is the smell: vibrant coffee and the subtle twang of wine.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I make it to Brady’s side. He helps me up onto the stool with a hand.
An actual gentleman.
Dangerous.
“You made it. Gotta admit, I wondered if you’d ghost,” he says over the low, thudding music.
“And look like I’m scared of what? You?” I snort. I nod toward the group of ladies in their thirties and forties. “Someone had to save you from those wine moms. Total cougar pack over there.”
His deep chuckle should be lost in the noise, but it vibrates through me. I watch his throat bob with the overwhelming sense that I’ve already sealed my doom.
When he leans in, I do my best to ignore his scent, that citrusy sea cologne again mingled with testosterone. It’s unfair how he smells like he just swaggered off a warm beach in Maui.
He’s dressed up for the occasion, I think, wearing charcoal slacks and an off-white button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves.
I hate that I’m a sucker for rolled sleeves when men have muscles to show off. Especially when half the single men around here either don’t lift or still dress like they’re teenagers.
This man has guns. Sculpted, intense, and accented with a hint of a Celtic tattoo weaving up one bicep that makes him look even bigger.
Eyes on his face.
His face, Lena. Now.
This is the twenty-first century and I’m a sensible girl. We’re not animals fresh off some cheesy sexting conversation from an app.
I have standards.
It’s just entertainment—something to take the edge off a long, beastly week.
“So how about that drink? I’ve got you covered tonight.”
“Only if I take the next round.” The words are too aggressive, but I can’t help myself. He might be inhumanly rich, but that doesn’t mean I’ll skimp on paying my way, outside the obligatory top-shelf drink he promised.
“Sure.” The corners of his eyes crinkle.
“Espresso martini. That’s their signature thing here,” I decide.
Best of both worlds. Who needs sleep, anyway?
“Good plan.” He gestures to the bartender and orders. While we’re waiting, he props his elbow against the table and looks at me again.
How does he do it?
Making me feel so small with just a glance?
I can’t lie—it’s a little unsettling.
Also a lot disconcerting when men this fit usually aren’t strong in the subtlety department. They’re prone to getting grabby rather than stripping me down with bedroom eyes.
Is this a thing rich guys practice? Flirting with just the eyes?
“Thanks for bringing Charlie home last week,” I say. “And, um, for saving me from getting knocked down by Sherry. Her owner swore he’d work on her manners for the last two years, and it still hasn’t happened.”
“She was just enthusiastic.” A small smile, but he shrugs. “You handled it well. I just broke your fall.”
“Mm.” Our drinks arrive, and I take a large sip. Sweet perfection. The coffee, vodka, and sugary liqueur go down like water. Too easy. “So how many pets do you have? Any purebreds?”
He pauses mid-sip and stares at me before he swallows.
“None. I’m too busy to invest the time, and my parents never allowed it, growing up.”
I can’t hide my surprise.
“Wow, really? With the fundraisers and animals on your channel, I guessed you’d have a whole menagerie.”
“Not yet. Maybe that’s why I care so much for everyone else’s pooches and cats.” He sips his own martini, reflecting, and I watch the way his throat moves.
“But they wouldn’t let you have one dog? Don’t tell me it was a money thing?”
“It was an optics thing. Image is law when you grow up like I did. We had all the resources in the world to have a few dogs, sure—hell, even a small hobby farm a few hours away. But my mom wouldn’t dirty up the house with a puppy, and Dad won’t be seen showing a single human crack in his armor.”