Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“So which branch of the military were you in?”
“Army,” he muttered, shoving omelet in his mouth.
Well, hell.
It tasted good.
That took chops, making an egg white omelet taste good.
“How long?”
“Full term.”
“Did you, uh…see some action?”
Mo turned his head to her, got a load of legs, nightie, tits, hair and a pretty face with a hesitant and earnest expression on it.
And he’d had enough.
More than enough.
He wasn’t playing this game and it was seriously fucked up she was trying to make him do that.
He was done.
“We’re not doin’ this,” he announced.
“Mo—”
“No,” he clipped. “And rules. You put some goddamn clothes on while I’m with you. I know this is an inconvenience and you know I’m gettin’ paid to do this job. But have some respect and cut a man some slack. You know precisely how fuckable you are. Every night, you dance, and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it. Do you honestly need that in your kitchen?”
The look on her face made him wish he could net the words that just came out of his mouth and set them on fire.
She blanked it right before she retorted, “I think I prefer Quiet Mo.”
“Great. I prefer that too. So let’s do that.”
“Fine,” she spat.
He dipped his chin.
She picked up her plate and took it to the apron-front sink which was two feet in front of him. She then dumped the whole thing in it, hardly eaten omelet and the rest sliding off onto the white enamel.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she declared. “I suppose, cutting you some slack, you don’t need to be around for that?”
“No,” he ground out.
“Awesome,” she snapped.
And then she marched out of the room, every muscle in her body screaming she was pissed off.
Or hurt.
Fantastic.
Mo drew in another breath through his nose.
Then he finished his breakfast and cleaned the kitchen.
Chapter Five
Trading Up
Lottie
Things did not go well after Mo was a supreme asshole.
If I wanted to look on the Brightside (which I did not), him making it plain how fuckable he thought I was, was not a bad thing.
Him completely missing the pass I was throwing at him was.
I mean, did he honestly think I was wearing my nightie making breakfast with a man I hadn’t slept with just so I could be a huge-ass tease?
No!
I wanted the big lug to ask me out.
Jerk.
Asshole.
Fuckface.
Obviously, considering I was an adult, I realized a route to rectifying this situation was to explain where I was at, and considering he thought I was fuckable, he’d probably get with the program.
Fat chance of that.
I couldn’t be an adult at the best of times, even actually being an adult.
Sure. I got to work on time.
I paid my bills.
I kept my house.
I got oil changes when I was supposed to (though I thought that was a huge scam, every three months? come on).
What I did not do, for three days, was talk to Mo.
Yeah.
Not very adult.
Okay, that wasn’t exactly true.
We talked because I was my mother’s daughter. I couldn’t start my day with someone in my house silently trailing me and not offer him coffee.
So I’d said, “Coffee?” to him the next two mornings after he’d been a consummate jackass.
Other than that…
No.
Why?
Two reasons.
One, I was the kind of woman who held a grudge. I just did. I knew that wasn’t right. It had cost me friendships and boyfriends and maybe I should work on that.
But not with Mo.
Oh no.
Not with Mo.
Two, because he didn’t like strippers.
That was clear.
He might have been diplomatic during our first talk, though he had indicated he had a problem with it.
And he was not mean to the girls at Smithie’s.
He was also not friendly.
Then of course there was that part of his outburst, the part I liked the best (not), where he’d said, Every night, you dance, and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it.
He thought I got off on it.
And okay, if I took a second to calm down and reflect (which I did not), there might be something about that.
It still wasn’t cool he threw it in my face and the way he did.
But I knew that about myself.
I liked attention.
When I was younger, I went to LA to become an actress.
I ended up Queen of the Corvette Calendar because, first, how kickass was that? And second, I sucked at acting. And last, there was an operative word in that title.
Queen.
My sister was quiet and sweet and responsible and hardworking, and everyone adored her.
But I was not any of that. Not even close.
This wasn’t sibling rivalry.
At least (if I was honest), not anymore.
And Jet didn’t get all the attention, but everyone around us made sure she (and thus I) knew how awesome she was for being sweet and responsible and hardworking.
“Oh, what a good girl she is, looking after that wild sister of hers while Nancy’s at work,” and, “Oh, it just breaks my heart Jet had to get a job so she could help her momma out with the bills.”