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)
“I can do that.” His doting boyfriend’s gaze is for no one but me.
Lucky me. I wonder how many women he’s bankrupted with his boyfriend experience.
“We can dance,” he purrs, reaching out to trail the backs of his fingers along my jaw.
“We could.”
“Maybe enjoy a couple of drinks.”
“We could do that too.” A couple of drinks is usually my limit, thanks to the chaos I was raised in. But my mother’s vices are not my own, so I guess I can make an exception for today. Come to think of it, I probably already have. “We don’t have to stay long.”
“Because everyone can tell we’re at the fucking-like-bunnies stage of our relationship.”
The way he looks at me, I can almost believe that myself. I give a tiny lift of my shoulder as though completely unaffected. As though the way his mouth moves when he speaks doesn’t do things to me. “You are quite something.”
“You don’t know the half of it, darlin’,” he says, laying on his accent thick.
Why the heck didn’t I think to make my imaginary boyfriend Irish? The two seem to go together like figs and honey. I roll my lips to wet them a little, and Matt’s gaze drops there. His throat moves with a swallow, and I realize how close we suddenly are, both of us straining close like flowers seeking the sun.
“Can I get you anything?” A server appears to the side. Thank God. Because I think I was about to climb into his lap. “To drink?” White shirt, an apron, and a long blond ponytail that she swishes over her shoulder, none of which Matt seems to see as he barely glances her way, politely reciting his drink order.
“Whiskey. Please. A single malt if you have it.” His eyes on me feel bold and kind of possessive.
“Champagne?” My request sounds like a question, my mind buzzing with the things I want but can’t have.
“Absolutely.” She makes a note on a little pad and moves to the other side of the table to gather some of the abandoned glassware.
“Should I be glad not knowing the half of it?” I ask, unable to keep myself from going there. Returning to the conversation from the careful distance of my chair.
“Worried you might miss out?”
“Well, I’m not gonna scribble your name in a bathroom stall or anything.”
“‘For a good-time call’?” His mouth curls in a reluctant-looking grin.
I bet a good time would be had by all.
“Forget I asked.” Because this is dangerous territory. It feels entirely too flirty.
“If you don’t want to find out, what should we do instead?” So much suggestion in that.
“Whatever that is on your face,” I retort, “let’s not do that.”
“Spoilsport. All right.” He leans in suddenly. “Tell me something.”
“Like what?”
“Anything. Tell me anything.”
My eyes slide over his shoulder to Josh, one of the back-office people, leaving the dance floor and walking our way. “Rumor has it that one of the techs is on OnlyFans.”
Matt gives a chuckle.
“But that’s not the juicy part. He has a wife and three kids, but his followers are predominantly male, if you know what I mean.”
“Tell me something else. Something about you.”
“Matt, we don’t need to—this is just a one-night thing.”
A very shapely eyebrow (for a man) lifts like a taunt.
“That’s not what I meant.”
That’s what they all say, his dark laughter seems to suggest.
“Can you, like, not behave?” I demand a little too delightedly.
“See . . .” He slips his hand between his legs to pull his chair closer, as though he has a secret to share. “I can behave,” he says, his eyes devouring me. “But Nate from Nine Inch Males? Sadly, he doesn’t know how to behave in public.”
“Nine Inch—” is as far as I get before I laugh. Part chortle, part snort. I do a bad job of smothering the heinous sound with my hand. “Nine Inch what?” I manage eventually.
“Males.” I swear his taunting tone reverberates right through to my bones. “It’s what I’d call my escort agency. If I had an escort agency.”
“Oh, my God, please don’t say that in here. Even if in some weird, alternate universe it might help put those knuckleheads in their place.” Or one of them, at least.
“Help how?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I glance over his shoulder at the dance floor again. Granted, I can’t see the idiots I work with, but they’re probably propping up the bar. Maybe doing lines in the bathroom, I think uncharitably. Vices that almost come with the job.
“Doesn’t matter?” he repeats, then begins to make chicken noises.
“Stop that,” I say. I chuckle.
“Baaawk, bawk, bawk.” Matt begins to move his arms like wings.
“Okay!” I splutter, still laughing at his impression. “I just meant that a man who’s paid to . . . you know. He’d likely be packing.” Obviously, I can’t look at him as I say this.