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)
Chapter 7
Matt
Sufriría una lesión una y otra vez por ti cualquier día.
It’s not every woman I’d offer to suffer a repetitive strain injury for.
By way of long-distance telephone sex.
Good thing no one at that table spoke Spanish, you eejit.
“He seemed kind of territorial.” Aiming for casual, I turn us in a circle on the dance floor. Lucky for me, the band has turned to Billie Holiday for inspiration. And maybe I shouldn’t be enjoying having my hands on Ryan this much, but fuck it. I should get some of the benefits. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, as the saying goes. “Bryce, was it?” I add, poking when she doesn’t answer.
“Brandon,” she says flatly. “The bane of my office existence.”
“And the bet was his doing.”
Her shoulder flicks. “He does seem to have it in for me.”
He’d like to have it in you, a little voice in my head whispers. And I’d like to break it off. At the root. Preferably without touching it.
What the fuck is with that? I mean, I like to think I’m a decent kind of fella. I do what’s right and stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. But this feels different—the way I wanted to launch myself across the table and punch him in the face felt so real. And that was just for his stroppy fucking attitude. For the way he was looking at Ryan, I wanted to twist off his tiny balls.
So much for entertainment. And so much for lady’s choice. I only realized what that sounded like once the words were in the air. Because it sounded like I might be touting for business instead of being genuinely interested in her.
I stifle a sigh. No point in backtracking. It’s not as though she seemed interested in the proposition. Either of them.
“I thought that skinny fella was gonna break a rib when he started hammering at his chest.”
“Hush.” Her eyes dart left as an older couple smile, waltzing by us. “My boss is over there,” she says, nodding toward someone I can’t see behind me. “And you’re supposed to be Spanish.”
“I thoughta thata skinny fella—ow!”
“Knock it off, Spanish Mario.” She lifts her foot from mine. “Why didn’t you tell me you speak Spanish?”
“You didn’t ask.”
She narrows her eyes, a smile tugging at her mouth. “So are you Irish or Spanish or . . .”
“Soy lo que la señorita ordene.” I’m whatever the lady ordered.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Sure it is. Just because you don’t understand it . . .” Go on, ask me what I said.
“Show-off.”
I stifle a disappointed sigh. “I’m half and half,” I say. Half Irish, half Spanish, and all kinds of into her, despite the obstacles I’ve put in my own way.
“Oh. Cool.”
“Do you want to know what I just said?” Go on, say yes. If for no other reason than it can be annoying when people say shit you don’t understand. Like You’re not the kind of man women want to marry. Or You’re a good-time boyfriend, not a longtime one. Fuck.
“I’m almost afraid to know.”
I make a chicken noise again. Ryan gazes, playfully unimpressed.
“You really want me to keep my mouth shut now that you’ve discovered my Spanish tongue?” Go on, ask me what my Spanish tongue would do to you.
“Such compliments,” she deadpans.
“There are all kinds of ways to compliment,” I say, devoid of suggestion. From my tone, at least. “Porque con esta lengua rendiría homenaje a tu belleza.” Because with this tongue I would pay homage to your beauty. “Wanna know what I said that time?”
“Probably not.”
“Come on, be adventurous.” She can deny with her words, but those eyes . . .
“I’m kind of risk averse.”
I give a soft chuckle. “You can’t convince me you’re frightened of anything.”
Her gaze slides over my shoulder. And hardens. “How about murder on the dance floor.”
“Something tells me you’re not referring to Sophie Ellis-Bextor.”
“Who?”
I open my mouth, about to ask how old she is, to complain that “Murder on the Dancefloor” is a classic. What comes out instead is “Your ex is behind me, isn’t he?”
Her expression gives an almost imperceptible flicker, her gaze drifting over my shoulder again. So I press two fingers to her cheek, gently moving her gaze back.
“Eyes on me, darlin’. That fucker doesn’t deserve an ounce of your attention.”
“I’m just imagining his face as Bolognese again.”
I give a soft chuckle and lift her hand to the back of my neck. “Let’s give the bastard a show.” Without giving her time to protest, I close the small space between us, pressing my lips tenderly to her hairline. Her head sits under my chin, and the heat of her body, its softness, just . . . fuck.
“Really, really messy Bolognese.” There’s a wobble in her delivery that makes me tighten my grip. “I don’t know why I feel like this. It’s not like I don’t see him most days.”