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)
I have to admit, this is a real romantic place, adorned with flickering candles, dark wallpaper, and hushed conversations.
Glancing up at the glowing chandelier, I let its light guide me to the elegant restroom tucked away in a corner, two mahogany doors placed side by side.
Toilets.
Nice.
I push through the door on the left.
Stepping inside, I peer around cautiously for a bathroom attendant. I’m in no mood to smile and chat politely to a stranger, even one stationed here solely to do a job that includes handing me a paper towel.
Phew. All clear.
Instead of a human I’m greeted by the soft scent of fragrance, the misting machine in the corner giving off a low hum as it gently sprays the room. Surrounding me is the quiet beat of classical music.
Marble countertops gleam under dim lighting, so very similar to the atmosphere outside.
I crouch down, searching for feet beneath the stalls.
“Sweet, I’m alone.”
Letting out a sigh of relief, I stand at the sink. Turn on the cold water, splashing it on my face.
“You are the biggest fucking idiot.” I steal a glance at my reflection in the mirror, frowning. “Do better next time.”
How do I get out of this mess?
Madisson and I have only ordered drinks so far, no food, but let’s be real, this isn’t the kind of place you come for just drinks. Not if you’re seated in the main dining room. This is the kind of place you come for an entire meal: starter and entrée, followed by dessert—and by dessert I do not mean Madisson naked in my bed with my face between her legs.
Which reminds me: Know what would be so cool right now?
Escaping through a window the same way they do in the movies.
I’ve always wanted to do that. It would be some real serious spy-thriller, action-movie shit.
I’ve always fancied myself an action-movie star if I’m being honest—perhaps I’ll cross that bridge when I retire from football.
Looking at myself in the mirror, my eyes scan the room behind me, landing on a frosted-glass window above one of the stalls. From my vantage point, it looks too small—would barely be large enough to fit my ass through, let alone my whole body.
What would it take to squeeze through?
There’s no realistic way I would fit.
Not a chance.
Still, I go into the corner stall. Survey the window’s dimensions, mentally measuring the inches. Climb onto the toilet seat and peer through the glass, gauging the distance from the bottom of the sill to the ground below.
“Yeah, not happening.” My escape will have to wait for another day.
I return to the sink and wash my hands as I contemplate my options:
Return to the table and rush through dinner.
Return to the table, make my apologies, and exit early.
Invent an emergency. I can text Landon right now and tell him to call me, pretending he’s my brother who needs me, like, immediately.
Pay for the drinks at the front, ditch her. Block her.
And when I say block her, I mean block the shit out of her.
Problem is, she knows my true identity because she is a jersey chaser. The last thing I need is for her to go to the media. The last thing I need is her selling a story.
Note to self: do not let her take a photo of us or let someone else take our photo.
“Why are you being such a pussy about this? You are a fucking legend. Grown men want to be you; women want to sleep with you.” I crack a smile, remembering what a badass I truly am. “Get out there and take control of the situation. Tell her you’re leaving.”
I square my shoulders.
Drop them. “Ugh. Don’t be such a goddamn chicken!”
Dumping someone mid-date is the worst kind of dick move, even I know that. And I may be an asshole, but I’m not entirely insensitive—I care about people’s feelings 80 percent of the time but still . . .
I need to get out of here.
Hope lost for a subterfuge escape, I pull the exit open and step back into the dining room, the noise hitting me at an unwelcome decibel.
At the same time, I feel someone smash into me.
Two things register in my brain at once:
1. The person is not an adult.
2. It’s a young girl.
She springs back, an apologetic expression written on her scrunched-up face. “Oh my gosh. Sir, I am so sorry!”
Her little hand is pressed to her chest.
I notice that her fingernails are bright blue.
“Sir? Kid, I’m only twenty-five.” Then. “Random question—did you happen to notice if there’s a window in the women’s bathroom?”
“I don’t think so?” She pauses, tilting her head. “Why? Were you planning to climb out of it?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly. “I can’t find one I’d fit through.”
The young girl laughs. “Who are you trying to get away from? A bad date?”