Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Your ass is the bomb.
You’d be prettier if you smiled a little more.
“But I do appreciate your diligence.” I lift my hand to his chest, my fingers trailing upward. I touch the edge of his bow tie as though to straighten it, then ghost my thumb over his lips. A subtle thrill runs through me as his mouth parts and his eyes darken. “But I think I can handle a Latin lover for the night.”
“Be careful what you promise, pretty girl.”
But promises are only words. As well I know. “Let’s get this over with.”
Matt inclines his head, then straightens. Somehow, he ends up with his arm still around me. I’m not going to complain as we step into the room, him all poise and confidence and me on slightly shaky legs.
“Just what I need.” As a server passes with a tray of champagne, I take two glasses without giving a hoot who they were for. I press one into Matt’s hand and almost throw the other back.
“Thirsty?” he asks as I put the empty glass on a nearby table.
“Let’s go with that.” I’m not much of a drinker, but Lord knows I need all the help I can get.
“Champagne is the candy floss of booze,” he says, examining his glass. “Satisfying for only as long as it touches the tongue.” There’s something sexual about his words, though not exactly overt. Story checks out about his career, I guess.
“You don’t like champagne?”
“Let’s just say there’s nothing like a cold pint and a whiskey chaser to improve the mood. Or blacken it, I suppose.”
Was he in that god-awful pub to drown his sorrows? The thought dies as he offers me his glass, and I take it.
“Come on,” he says, sliding his arm around my waist. “I won’t let you fall.”
I try not to take too much comfort in his words. His touch, though? That I can handle. Even if it makes me realize I’ve missed this. Holding hands and hugging. Maybe Ava is right about touch being a basic need. Not that I’ll be hiring Cuddle Carl anytime soon. But hire Matt? I roll my bottom lip to stifle a ridiculous smile.
I’m relieved to see I was right about the timing. The dance floor is packed and the tables surrounding it only half filled. When my gaze lands on Heidi’s for a second time, she grins and fans her face theatrically from the other side of the room. Agreed, Heidi, the man is hot as fuck.
The music segues seamlessly to another song, and I almost laugh.
“What’s funny?”
I give my head a tiny shake. Not the Supremes, that’s for sure, as the unmistakable introduction to “You Can’t Hurry Love” begins to flow from the speakers.
I’m sure my ex would disagree. Did disagree, in fact, after staring into Annabelle’s doll-like eyes and seeing his future. Status, wealth, the Upper East Side town house. The guaranteed leapfrog effect to his career when he discarded me like one of his Twinkie wrappers. I should’ve known better than to trust someone whose favorite treat is so chemical filled it would survive an apocalypse. And I thought I was supposed to be white trash.
But being here, in the ballroom, at his wedding, makes me feel . . .
Nothing, surprisingly.
There’s no flash of green envy as I take in the tables laden with white linens, gold accents, and flickering candlelight. I feel nothing for the floral displays as tall as I stand. The decor is elegant, refined, and timeless, and though it might be the kind of wedding I once dreamed of, it was never the kind of wedding I would ever have.
We were never destined for the Pierre. The most I could’ve hoped for was a quickie ceremony in Vegas. That way, there’d be no questions asked about my family’s nonattendance. No gossip about little ole me.
I almost can’t blame Pete for getting sucked into all this. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t happily crush him under the wheels of a bus. Then reverse over him.
Up ahead, a whirl of white catches my eye. The new Mrs. Peter. J. Langley in all her wedding finery. Annabelle the perfect. An alumna of Nightingale and Brown—hundreds of thousands of dollars of education for someone destined to be a nanny-overseeing UES mom.
That’s not jealousy. Not much jealousy. I guess I feel sorry for her because she deserves better than a piece of shit like Pete. It’s just not my place to tell her so. I doubt she’d even believe me. Not right now.
“It’s this one here,” I say over my shoulder as we weave through the tables. Not that we have far to go. Naturally, the help has been seated near the back. I’m relieved to find our table empty but for a graveyard of glasses filled with liquids to varying degrees.