Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Touchy, touchy. Such a grumpy bear.” His eyes lit up. “Oh my God—”
“No,” I barked. “That is not going to be my new nickname.”
“It so is.”
All I could do was shake my head. “Your Uber has to be here by now. Go home, Ryder. And don’t come back.”
I walked away to the sound of his annoyed gasp.
Was I rude? Yep.
Had I blown my tip? Probably.
Did I care? Nope.
Mostly.
Okay, I cared about the tip a lot, but that ship had most likely sailed.
I left him to fend for his drunken self as I rummaged through the supply closet for rags and cleaning spray. By the time I made it back to my section, Trevor’s was already sparkling clean. He’d gone behind the bar to help stack the clean glasses.
An envelope rested dead center on the table Ryder and his friends had abandoned. It had my name in a typical male chicken scratch. Their bill had been astronomical, but I bet I’d get a hundred bucks max. It’s what I deserved for running my mouth, but I’d been hoping for at least eight hundred from this table. Being that I’d copped a major attitude to a paying customer, I’d probably end up needing to hand over the entire measly tip to the bartender and bussers instead of the standard thirty percent Top Shelf required.
I grabbed the envelope with a frown.
Huh, it was thicker than I’d expected.
As I opened it, my heart slammed against my ribcage. “Holy shit,” I muttered. “There has to be…” I did a quick count and nearly swallowed my tongue. “Three thousand dollars?” Even giving away thirty percent, I’d still clear two thousand on this table alone. That would cover all my books and groceries and leave some money for new medical-grade compression stockings for my mom.
Were Ryder and his friends always that generous? Had he really left me this much money even though I’d been a dick to him all night? I groaned as a hot feeling of shame washed over me.
He’d always struck me as the type to leave a small tip. Maybe his friends had talked him into it. Turko definitely acted pleased with the service.
Hell, maybe Ryder left such a big tip because he felt sorry for me. Oh shit.
I froze, staring down at the money.
Was this pity money?
CHAPTER FOUR
RYDER
“Will this be a common occurrence now that you’ve returned home?” My mother breezed into the room with her open robe floating around her like a silk parachute. Even at eight on a Sunday morning, she had a full face of professionally applied makeup and an artfully arranged hairdo her stylist had crafted. With the amount of time and money my mother spent making sure she looked perfect, she could have solved many of the world’s problems.
My sister, Vera, who trailed in after our mother, snorted when she caught sight of me. Four years my junior and smack in the middle of college, Vera should have been the one with dark sunglasses, a vat of coffee, and a bottle of Motrin beside her plate of plain toast. Instead, she had a fresh face and sparkling eyes that spoke to a solid eight hours of uninterrupted sober sleep while I suffered.
“Aww, feeling a little hungover this morning, bro?” she asked with the kind of micro-aggressive sweetness only a sibling could pull off.
“I’m good,” I mumbled into my coffee.
“Really, Ryder dear, shouldn’t you be over this phase of life by now? You’re not in a fraternity anymore.”
Didn’t I know it? The frat had given me a place to sleep that wasn’t my stuffy childhood home with my image-conscious parents. I needed to get my own apartment and fast. Three weeks back at home had me losing my mind. Unfortunately, my parents were pressuring me to move into one of the hotels my father owned. Two of their five-star luxury hotels offered penthouse apartments with hotel amenities. They were gorgeous, trendy, and someplace anyone would kill to live. For me, moving there felt like a lateral move. Living in a building owned by my father’s corporation would allow him a bird’s-eye view of my life and the potential for control— his favorite hobby.
“There’s no phase of life. I went out with some friends I haven’t seen in a year and a half. We had a fun night. Sue me.”
My mother’s delicate scoff was the stuff of legends. She didn’t yell or make a scene when she disapproved of someone’s behavior—someone being my sister, father, or me. Instead, she let out the same grating cluck every time. She had the annoying tsk-tsk down to a science. The sound had an arrogant air of superiority that let us know whatever we’d done to earn the infamous scoff had her frowning down on us from her platinum tower. We lived so far below her that we looked like ants as we committed our sins.