Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Classy.
Impressive.
When the server asked what we’d like to drink, Madisson tried to order a bottle of their most expensive wine. An entire bottle, for herself.
The server’s brows raised, and he glanced at me for approval. “Ma’am, the most expensive wine is fifteen hundred.”
My date squealed in delight, clapping her hands, smiling brightly.
It was that moment I thought to myself, Self, how the fuck do you find these women?
I shake my head. No way am I paying fifteen hundo for a bottle of alcohol for a woman I’ve known ten minutes.
“She’ll have something by the glass.”
Pouting, Madisson crosses her arms—crosses her legs—bouncing her knee like a petulant child.
“Are you angry I didn’t order you an entire bottle of wine? ’Cause for the record, I’m having beer.”
Her chin tilts up in the air. Sniffle. “It’s fine.”
Bounce, bounce goes her knee . . .
My eyes, damn them, choose that moment to trail over her smooth, tan legs, stopping short at the strap on her ankle—the black box there has me doing a double take.
Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.
It can’t be.
Madisson uncrosses her leg, the black anklet disappearing from my view.
Nosy, I pull back, tilting my large body for a better vantage point beneath the table so I can see for myself, one way or another.
The box on her leg does indeed appear to be what I think it is.
Shit.
“Not to get personal, but are you wearing an ankle monitor?”
Madisson’s petite frame shrugs, nonplussed. “Yes.”
I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. At a loss for words, I let my mouth drop open. “Uh. Why?”
“I’m on probation.” Duh. “House arrest.”
No idea what to say to that.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t ankle monitors sometimes used to monitor alcohol consumption? One of my buddies was on probation in college; he had to wear one, too, and I remember him saying the bracelet utilized transdermal testing to detect liquor through the skin, using whatever crazy science-technology shit they use.
Or something.
If Madisson has a drink of wine, it will surely buzz.
I narrow my eyes at her across the table. “Are you supposed to be drinking?”
“Who’s going to tell my probation officer?” Her eyes sparkle, and her red lips curve into a sultry smile, especially when the server sets down our drinks. “You?”
Jesus Christ.
I cannot be seen with . . . with a felon. “Have you been convicted, or are you awaiting trial?”
I’ve seen enough teammates who’ve had run-ins with the law to know how this shit works, especially rookies.
“It was a minor offense,” Madisson scoffs as she bites on her thumbnail, ignoring my hard gaze. “Chill out, I’m not a danger to the community.”
Chill out.
Those words rear their ugly head, coming back to haunt me at the most inopportune time, because I said the exact same ones to someone else only a short time ago.
Now I understand why Margot got so pissed off hearing them.
Chill out?
I don’t think so.
I lift my beer and take a drink so I have something to do with my hands other than pick at my napkin.
“What was the offense?” I blurt out. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
Again, my date shrugs, the red sequin dress making a slow descent down her arm.
“Accidentally showing up at someone’s workplace.” She hesitates. “But, like—it was a total misunderstanding, and I only went there ’cause I had been drinking.”
“A drunken, accidental stalking?” I feel myself blinking rapidly. “Of who?”
“Some girl.”
She’s being deliberately vague. “What girl specifically?”
Her red pouty lips form the words. “My ex-boyfriend’s new skank of a girlfriend. Then him. But they’re full of crap. Why would I give a shit about either of them? She is a total downgrade.”
I mean—Madisson is attractive, no doubt about that.
But her behavior is as ugly as it gets.
And apparently she’s a criminal. They don’t strap ankle monitors on anyone and everyone for funsies—there is a reason the court ordered her to wear it, and I want no part of that.
I shiver—not because I’m cold; I shiver because my brain is unable to process this new information. None of this is in my wheelhouse, and not to mention, the sight of that monitor has my dick shriveling three sizes.
“Will you excuse me? I think I have to take a shit,” I announce, wipe my mouth with a napkin, though there was no food on my face, and toss it on my chair before stalking away from the table.
This date was foolish, and I knew that before it began, but did that stop me?
No.
I should have left Madisson in the category of Absolutely Not, the way I had done while using my other profile. The real me, professional-football-player me.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I mumble to myself, once again stuck in a situation I want no part of.
Think with your head next time, not with your cock. I chastise myself as I navigate through the dimly lit restaurant, grateful for the short trip to the toilets, though I must weave between tables with my massive body.