Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
“Don’t you dare defend him. He doesn’t get to decide who you sleep with—Declan doesn’t own you. Your job doesn’t own you. You are allowed to have a life.”
“I know that, Blaire,” I insist quickly. “I don’t want this to turn into a thing.”
“Too late. It already is a ‘thing’.” She uses air quotes around the word.
I give my head a shake. “It’s not.”
“You had lots and lots of sexy sex with one of his teammates—I’d say that constitutes a thing. Or a fling.”
“Okay,” I concede. “It makes it a small thing.”
“A medium thing,” she corrects.
“Fine.” I pull a face. “A medium thing.”
She laughs. “Why are you spiraling?”
“Because it’s messy.”
“Messy how?”
“Because. If my brother finds out, he’ll assume the worst. He’ll assume I’m being naïve. Or need saving.”
“And are you any of those things?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I sink back into the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“The problem is that I liked it,” I admit quietly. “Not just physically. I like being with him.”
She reaches for the bottle and tops off both our glasses like we’re commemorating something historic. “Say all this again, but slower.”
“I don’t want it to be complicated.” I laugh.
“Too late!”
And then—
My stomach growls.
Loudly.
Blaire freezes mid-sip. “… Was that you?”
“I don’t know, maybe it was the couch?”
It growls again.
She bursts out laughing. “You are starving.”
“I forgot to eat.”
“You forgot to eat because you were too busy daydreaming about lover boy and his giant dic—”
“Finish that sentence and I’m leaving,” I warn.
She cackles. “You can’t leave. You’re weak from hunger and poor decision-making.”
“I came straight here from work,” I defend. “I assumed you’d have food.”
Blaire giggles. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. What do I look like, a planner? Someone who grocery shops on a regular basis?” More laughing. “See! I was meant for the WAG life!”
She gestures broadly toward her kitchen.
It is, in fact, probably barren.
“You think WAGs don’t grocery shop?”
“They do not,” she says with authority. “They have assistants. They have fruit pre-sliced for them.”
We laugh again and drink from our glasses, giddy giggles slipping from our lips at the absurdity of the conversation.
“You know what this is?” she says, pointing at me with the neck of the wine bottle. “This is proof. You need a man who texts you about dinner. And I need a man who texts me about dinner reservations.”
She’s tipsy—but so am I.
“I did not forget to eat. I thought you were going to feed me because you’re a normal person with food in their fridge.”
She opens her mouth to respond—
And my phone starts ringing.
Not vibrating.
Ringing.
We both freeze.
Slowly, like we’re in a horror movie, our heads turn toward the coffee table.
My phone screen lights up.
Blaire squints at it, eyes widening to cartoon proportions.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
I don’t move. “Is it him?”
“Yes!”
“How do you know?” I ask, panicked, flapping my arms helplessly.
He and I spoke already this afternoon but that was then and this is now, and the last thing I was expecting was for him to follow up.
“Because it says AARON BISHOP on the screen,” she hisses, smacking my arm. “Why is he calling you?”
“I don’t know!”
“Is this a booty call?”
“I don’t know, Blaire!”
She plucks my phone off the coffee table and chucks it at me. “Answer it!”
“I can’t answer it like this!”
“Like what?”
“Like—wine-drunk!”
“Dear god, you are not drunk, you’ve had half a glass.”
“That’s enough!”
“I swear to God if you let it go to voicemail—” Blaire hisses.
“I’m answering! Stop bossing me around.”
“Put it on speaker!”
“I am not putting it on speaker.”
“You owe me!”
I panic.
I swipe to answer and immediately stand, pacing at the other side of the small living room as if the distance will make me sound sober, and prevent Blaire from eavesdropping and taking over the conversation.
“Um, hello? This is Juliette.”
Behind me, I feel Blaire rolling her eyes theatrically toward the ceiling and groan.
I swat the air in her direction. BE QUIET!
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Aaron’s deep timbre asks. Completely unaware that my best friend is about to hyperventilate, already exhausted by what a loser I am.
“A bad time? No!” I say too loudly. “This is a great time, actually. Totally great.”
Blaire slaps her own forehead.
“I’m still at Blaire’s. We were, um, arguing about dinner plans.”
“Ah. So, the two of you are planning on eating somewhere?”
“Planning on eating somewhere?” I parrot him, stupidly. “We were about to have dinner, but…” I glance at my best friend, who is flapping her arms up and down, the universal signal for NO! ABORT. STOP SAYING WORDS.
I turn back toward the window so she can’t interfere with her angry faces.
“We were discussing options,” I say diplomatically.
“I don’t want to interrupt your plans,” he adds casually.
“You weren’t. There is no food here.”
A small pause.
“If you don’t have plans,” he says tentatively, “I was going to cook.”
“Cook?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Nothing fancy,” he says quickly. “I’m exhausted. Long day. I was going to throw something together and figured I’d ask before I did.”