Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
God, that feels like a lifetime ago.
What I wouldn’t give to go back ten years. My time-traveler wish isn’t solely to stop my heart from being smashed into smithereens, but also to educate my mother on early intervention and how passive smoking is worse than smoking itself.
When the entry door of the bar creaks open, now an unusual sound for this time of night, I look up. A wave of anger washes over me when I recognize the devilishly handsome face and icy gaze of the man entering.
He has no right to be here, not after everything he’s done, and I’m too angry to pretend otherwise.
“You’re not welcome here,” I say to Mikhail, my voice cold and unwelcoming.
I hook my thumb to the wall of banned patrons behind my left shoulder. Most are abusive drunks, but I reserve the space front and center for the man who broke my heart.
“The wall of shame says so.”
“Damn.” Mikhail’s smile makes me want to forget all the horrid things he has done. “I was quite the looker back in the day.”
He speaks as if he already has two feet in the grave. He will if he doesn’t adhere to my silent warning to leave now or peer down the wrong end of the barrel of a shotgun as per the warning above the banned patrons’ mugshots.
“Though still shocked you said yes.” He flashes me a wink that almost buckles my knees. “Do you remember—”
“No, I don’t.” I shake my head, my grip on the dishcloth tightening. “Nothing overly memorable has ever occurred here.”
Grinning, he moseys to the counter and plops his backside on a barstool. I hope his jeans are thin. The cracked leather on the stools is famous three towns over for its skin-shredding capabilities.
“I can think of a time or two that were extremely memorable.”
When Mikhail’s eyes lower to a section of the bar that will forever conjure wicked thoughts, I throw my dishcloth in his face before twisting to face the only bartender we’ve managed to keep on the books.
Abram is hopeless but loyal.
“I’m heading out. Close early if no one comes in within the hour.”
When Abram jerks up his chin, I gather my coat from the rack and head for the exit.
I barely make it halfway to the lot when the clomp of a heavy-footed man echoes in the quiet. Mikhail is tall and athletically built, but his feet slap the ground like the floorboards insulted his deceased mother.
“Go home, Mikhail.” I twist to face him, stupidly desperate to see his eyes before finalizing my reply. “Go back to your wife and unborn child.”
He recoils as if I sucker punched him, and then the most panty-wetting grin crosses his face. “Do you mean my sister and unborn niece?”
He homes in closer, like he’s forgotten about the shotgun we keep behind the bar and how I can’t absorb anything when his cologne lingers in my nostrils.
Did he say sister and unborn niece?
“Stands about yay high”—he fans his hand across his nipple—“blonde hair, blue eyes?”
I’m tired. I get snappy when tired. “Are you still describing your apparent sister?” I air quote apparent because Mikhail has no sisters. His brothers are endless, but there’s been no mention of a living sister, much less one old enough to have boobs bigger than mine. “Or one of the many women you’ve been photographed with over the past ten years?”
He smirks, and I grunt, hating that he can still make me jealous after all this time.
Refusing to let him see that he’s upset me, I recommence walking. “Go home, Mikhail. I don’t care who it is to, as long as it’s far from here.”
“I’ll leave…”—he delays long enough for my stomach to gurgle—“when you agree to come with me.”
I wiggle my finger in my ear, certain I am going deaf. When it rewards me with nothing but a sore ear, I crank my neck back. Mikhail is standing in a kitchen that hasn’t been used in years, smirking like he has the entire world at his feet.
I have news for him.
“And why would I do that?” I steal his chance to reply. “I have a life here. Family. My husband might also be opposed to the idea of me going home with an old flame.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire!
The last guy I went home with still lived with his ex-wife and drove her minivan.
That was a shameful three years ago.
Upon spotting my disgusted expression, Mikhail laughs, grating my last nerve.
“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I’ve moved on?”
His eyes flash, pleased that he forced me to react. “It isn’t that I don’t believe you, Emmy—”
“Don’t call me that.”
He acts as if I never interrupted him. “It is the fact his”—he nudges his head to Abram—“eyes haven’t been gouged that calls you out as a liar.” Again, he steps closer, killing both my sinuses and my senses. “It doesn’t matter how fancy the packaging is. If it is taken, you’d never look or let them look.” A flare of jealousy darts through his eyes as he mutters, “He’s been ogling your ass all night. If you were married, which I sure as fuck know you’re not, he’d be bleeding from his sockets, because when Emerson Morozov’s goods are claimed, only the man she let claim them is permitted to gawk.”