Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Layla: Hey.
The message immediately appeared to have been read. One of the things I loved about Grant was that we both had very little life outside our jobs and best friends, so we always had time for each other.
Grant: Hi.
Layla: What are you doing?
Grant: Not much. You?
God, in text messages, he was drier than my mouth after a full night of sleeping congested. So different from how he was in person.
Layla: I just opposed a marriage in the middle of a 350-guest wedding ceremony and made a ru
The elevator pinged and the door opened. I stepped inside, grateful to find it empty. While it closed, I contemplated changing my mind about telling Grant the entire story, but I decided to go for it. He was surprisingly nonjudgmental for a tall, high-earning, porn star–fucking bachelor who also happened to be a doctor.
Layla: I just opposed a marriage in the middle of a 350-guest wedding ceremony and made a run for it.
Grant: You did not.
Layla: Did too.
Grant: Pic or it didn’t happen.
I clicked on the camera app, flipped the screen, and took a selfie in the fancy hotel elevator, doing a kissy face with my updo and fancy pink dress. Then applied three different filters. Then clicked send.
Grant: Is this a TikTok challenge? I swear to God, Gen Z is so fucked. I’m glad I’m not reproducing.
Layla: The groom was my mythological ex.
Layla: My mythological Jackass ex. I consider warning the bride a public service, even though I think the wedding is still on.
Grant: Do I need to post bail?
The fact that I knew he would made me less agitated with my own existence. He was so down to earth for someone so dazzling. I grinned, my thumbs flying over the screen.
Layla: I’m clearly not in a police station.
Grant: Yet. Night’s still young, and I know you.
He knew why I’d contacted him. It was why I always contacted him. To have wild, hot sex. But he wanted me to say it. To explicitly proposition him. He didn’t care that I’d just had the worst night of my life. For him, it was a transaction like any other. An orgasm transaction, but still.
Layla: Speaking of nights, since you’re not doing anything interesting . . .
Read. He was still looking at the screen. Not answering.
Grant: That’s not technically a full sentence, Layla.
Layla: You can pick me up. I’ll buy you dinner*.
Grant: *?
Layla: *A very cheap one. Payday is next week.
Grant: Do I look like a cheap date?
Layla: I’m not sure what you look like. Your features are a bit hazy in my mind. Every time we’re together I sit on your face.
Grant: Drop me your location. I’m on my way.
I turned to the mirror, pressed my forehead against it, closed my eyes, and took a steadying breath.
I’d just stood up to my monster.
And survived to tell the tale.
Chapter Four
Grant
I watched Layla jog her way to my car from across the street, cheeks flushed, hair dancing in the wind, tits so perky they made me want to kill myself, knowing I’d never again witness such flawless beauty.
She looked a lot like that actress Kat Dennings. My crush from adolescence. Curvy in all the right places, with a trim waist, pale, smooth skin, and huge blue eyes. Her hair—naturally dark brown, dyed green—was criminally soft. She was the kind of hot to convince you to get rid of her dead boyfriend’s body and then lie about it under oath. I pitied all the fathers in her class. The moms too. But mostly, I pitied myself, because our relationship was the equivalent of taking one bite of a really good dessert, knowing you’ll be denied the rest of it.
She was more or less the only person I’d sacrifice a decent parking spot in the city for, which was why I’d driven here instead of making her recite her night in front of a random Uber driver. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.” She landed in my passenger seat, then slammed the door behind her and leaned to give me a peck on the cheek. Her lips were ice cold, but they still shot a zing of warmth through me.
I tilted one eyebrow up. “Grant is fine. God is just my stage name in bed.”
“Is it, now?”
I shrugged, playing it cool. “James Dean was taken.”
She snorted, fishing out something from her purse before handing it to me. “Here. I found a Frost Tropical Mango Gatorade at the convenience store while I was hiding from wandering wedding guests behind the stale-nuts aisle. Apparently, they’re rare.”
I’d been obsessed with Gatorade since my residency days. Tried almost every flavor on the market, including this one. I unscrewed the cap and took a pull. “I love it when my fans are generous.”
“Whatever. The only reason I remembered is because I file into memory everything you tell me, hoping one day it’ll be your credit card details.”