Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
After all, fatherhood is important, and after my ex took off, I was angry for a good long time. But I was a young man, and eventually, the dating world came for me again. Female neighbors would rap on my apartment door in the middle of the night, claiming to need medical care for a headache, or for menstrual cramps. It was hysterical, and yeah, I fucked a few. Why not take what’s offered on a silver platter? Not only that, but I’ve had female patients come onto me from their hospital beds. You’d think that being make-up free with stringy hair would hold a woman back, but not so in my case. Women literally flirt with me while they’re being administered anesthesia, and more than a few propositions have been cut-off midway when the drugs finally knock them out.
So I did date, and eventually, I fell in love. Twice, in fact, and both women were smart, capable ladies who were professional and competent. I adored both Barbara and Courtney, and imagine my elation when they discovered they were pregnant (at separate times, of course). But the problem with high-powered career women is that they don’t necessarily want children, or at least not when in they’re the thick of establishing their professional lives. As a result, both women chose to abort, and I was left helpless with desperation, sadness, and an increasing feeling that fatherhood just wasn’t in the cards for me. Yes, I had a daughter, but she was thousands of miles away. Yes, I’d conceived two more children, but the mothers weren’t ready to become mothers. As a so-called “enlightened male,” I respected my partners’ decisions to end the pregnancies, but ultimately, our relationships didn’t last. The heartache on my side was too great, and I couldn’t look at either Barb or Courtney without resentment rising in my chest.
So now, I stick to Sweet Lies. It’s probably been ten years since I’ve been on a real date, but whatevs. Again, my personal history has been painful and convoluted, and I can’t go through that fuckery again. After a shit ton of therapy, I’ve come to the conclusion that the joy of raising a young child isn’t in the books for me, and I should keep things light and simple by paying for companionship, rather than courting it. So here I am, at the bar of a fancy hotel, waiting for an escort to arrive.
L'Artusi, and the Reynolds in general, is a swanky place. The bar is one of those spots that’s elegant but not fussy, with ambient lighting, well-dressed patrons, and excellent food. Even more importantly, it hasn’t been “discovered” by Instagram influencers yet. I don’t know how those dipshits can live the way they do, taking pictures of everything and anything that catches their fancy without actually taking the time to enjoy it. Plus, don’t they realize that their “work” ruins the experience for the rest of us? I detest watching an influencer set-up, pose, click, and shoot, when they should be enjoying the food and drink. I guess restaurants do it for the free publicity, but frankly, the publicity that comes from being “Instagrammable” isn’t necessarily good for business, either, because what if you attract the wrong type of clientele? It would be a fucking shame, in my opinion, if L’Artusi suddenly overflowed with out-of-towners trying to have a Sex and the City experience. Fuck, that would be so lame.
But my thoughts are interrupted with a tap at my shoulder, and when I turn, it’s the maître d’.
“Dr. Kincaid, your guest is here,” he murmurs before stepping away. Then, a beautiful blonde appears and my dick twitches immediately because the woman is utterly ravishing. She’s young, with innocent blue eyes and a pert nose. Her mouth is delicate yet full, and a sensuous petal-pink color. Even better, her body is that of a siren. Huge Double D breasts are highlighted by a pink cocktail dress, which leads to a narrow waist and the flare of wide hips. Long legs peep out from below the hem, and her delicate feet are encased in pink stilettos. Perfect. Just my type.
“Hi,” I greet in a low voice, leaning over to kiss her soft cheek. “Rick Kincaid.”
A whiff of something flowery and sweet greets my nostrils, and my dick stiffens further. Fuck, she’s got me wrapped around her finger, and hasn’t said a word yet.
“Hello Dr. Kincaid,” my date murmurs with sweet smile while perching herself on a stool. “I’m Jenna. Are we on last name terms already?” she asks inquisitively. “Since we met on a dating website, isn’t that unsafe? We should be using aliases, no?”
I shrug, a smile quirking the corner of my lips.
“I guess so, but Sweet Lies is pretty high-class, so I’m not too worried. Plus, you already heard the host call me “doctor,” so you could look me up on the internet easily. There aren’t that many Richard Kincaid’s who work as physicians in this city.”