Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 382(@300wpm)
“What would you like to drink, miss?” the waiter prompts.
“Uh. Yes. Thank you.” I clear my throat. “A dirty martini, Grey Goose, two olives, please. Thank you.”
“Great. I’ll get your drinks and come back for your food order.”
“Thanks,” Cameron says.
The waiter walks away and Cameron picks up his menu again.
“What are you drinking?” I ask. “I didn’t hear your order.”
“Just water. I don’t drink,” he says.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t realize. I can cancel my martini if—”
He laughs. “No worries. I’m used to it.”
“You don’t drink because you’re sober, or . . .?”
“I don’t drink during the season.”
I’m relieved. “How long is the season?”
“Including spring training and post-season, if you’re lucky, about eight months.”
What the fuck? The guy doesn’t drink for eight months of the year? “Good lord,” I say. “No drinking for eight whole months? It’s like you’re pregnant once a year.” I shudder with mock horror. Or maybe it’s just straight-up horror, actually. That sounds like a fate worse than death to me.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Do you get weird cravings, too—like for pickles and ice cream?”
He laughs. “Thankfully, no.”
“I really wouldn’t knock drinking as part of a healthy lifestyle,” I say. “Vodka comes from potatoes. Potatoes are vegetables. Hence, vodka is a vegetable.” I snort.
Cameron grins politely, but he doesn’t laugh. He looks back down at his menu. “I’m thinking the surf and turf. You?”
Ooph. Brutal. Where’s our chemistry? Is it hanging out with Waldo? I feel like I’m pulling teeth here. Surely, Cameron must feel the same way. “Yeah, surf and turf sounds good,” I say. Oh my God, my phone is calling to me like a siren. I’ve got to respond to Josh’s invitation. “Hey, you know what, Cameron? I’m so sorry, but I just need to finish something . . .” I motion to my phone. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”
“Okay,” he says tentatively.
“Sarah again,” I say.
“Oh, yeah, take your time.” By the compassionate tone of his voice, it’s obvious he thinks being there for my best-friend-Sarah-who-was-stabbed-in-a-bathroom is something admirable. And, bitch that I am, I’m happy to let him think it if it means I can get away with texting Josh for a little bit longer.
“I’ll just be a minute. And then I’m all yours.”
He flashes me a beaming smile. “I like the sound of that.”
“I’m really sorry, PB,” I text to Josh quickly, my heart pounding. “I’d love to celebrate your freedom with you with the best martini in Seattle, but I just sat down for dinner. Can I take a rain check?”
“HOLY FUCK PUT YOUR FORK DOWN!” he immediately replies. “I’M COMING TO GET YOU RIGHT NOW! Where are you?”
I bite my lip to keep myself from giggling. “No can do. I’ve already ordered,” I write.
“Well, then, that’s an easy one. How about I join you? Are you with friends? Make sure you order whatever you want. Dinner’s on me.”
My stomach twists. Shit. I stare at my phone for a long beat, trying to decide how to word my reply. “I’m not with friends,” I write. “I’m on a date.” I press the send button, wincing. But I can’t figure out another way to phrase it.
“NOOOOO!” he replies immediately.
I bite my lip again, but it’s no use. A giggle escapes my mouth. I glance up at Cameron. He’s studying his menu intently.
“It’s a first date,” I reply. “We were supposed to go out the night I met you at Jonas’, actually. And then it got rescheduled and we were supposed to go out the night Sarah was attacked. And now we’re here. Finally.”
“Kat, the universe clearly doesn’t want you to date this guy. Get up and leave now! What do you need the universe to do before you start listening—send a fucking bus crashing into the restaurant?”
I laugh out loud.
Before I can reply, Josh sends another message. “Tell him you have to leave. I’ll send a car for you right now. It’ll be there in five minutes. Tell him NOW.”
I make a face at my phone. On what planet would I ever ditch Cameron like that? I’m a bitch, but I’m not that big a bitch. That might be how things happen in movies (and, admittedly, in one of the many fantasy-pornos that plays inside my head) but that’s not how nice people in real life act. “I’m not gonna do that,” I write to Josh. “Cameron’s a nice guy. And I’ve already cancelled on him twice.”
“So what. He deserved it. He’s a tool.”
“He’s not a tool. Far from it.”
“Yes, he is. Obviously.”
“He’s not.”
“Yes, he is. You wanna know how I know?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Because you’re on a date with him and you’re more interested in texting me.”
I smile broadly. Touché, Playboy.
“Ergo, he’s a tool,” Josh writes.
I shouldn’t do it—I know I shouldn’t—but I can’t help myself. “He’s not a tool. He’s a professional baseball player.”