Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 447(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
His jaw tightened.
“I thought so...”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. It really is just as simple as you’re underage, and I’m not in the mood to get in trouble for ordering a drink for a minor.”
“You didn’t have to order it. I would’ve ordered it myself. And minor is a harsh word for someone who’s a legal adult.” I shrugged. “So, I’m not the drinking age—in this country. Big deal. Age is just a number.”
“If it’s just a number, why did you feel the need to lie about it?” He sat back, crossing his gorgeous arms as he awaited my answer.
I had to admit, he’d stumped me. Why did I feel like I had to lie? I wasn’t ashamed of my age.
“I was trying to create an alter ego, I guess, one who was separate from the sadness I’m trying to escape by coming here. Adjusting my age was merely a consequence of that. In retrospect, I should’ve been honest, but I can’t help that you have a hang-up about how old you are compared to me.”
“You said you were twenty-nine, which would still be a little young for me, believe it or not. There’s a world of difference between twenty-nine and nineteen. You may not realize it now, but you will in retrospect.”
“Or I might think back to the time I met a handsome older man at a resort and we wasted a few good days because he was hung up on a number, even though he was attracted to me and every part of him besides his brain was on board. That man had a problem with letting loose.”
Tate cleared his throat. “And just how often do you let loose, Doris-Delores?”
“Actually...believe it or not, almost never. That’s always been my problem. I’ve taken life way too seriously and given way too much of myself to one person, who ended up throwing me away. I’ll never do that again.”
He nodded. “When did this breakup happen?”
“Three months ago.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Maybe later. Not now. I don’t want to ruin my dinner.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Fair enough.”
After a moment, I asked, “When are you leaving?”
“Saturday. You?”
“Same, actually.”
Three days.
It wasn’t long enough.
The waitress returned to the table. “A beer for you...” She placed the bottle in front of Tate before setting down my glass. “And your Coke.” She looked between us. “Have you guys decided what you want to eat?”
“We haven’t even looked at the menu,” I admitted. “Dad can’t figure out what he really wants. Actually, he knows what he wants, but he’s not sure if he should go there.”
“It’s your birthday!” the waitress encouraged. “You should splurge.”
“That’s what I said.” I snorted.
“Let me guess…” the waitress added. “It’s the lobster alfredo.”
“He’s afraid-o, yeah.” I laughed.
Tate’s jaw ticked.
“Okay, well, I’ll give you guys a few more minutes to decide,” she said before she disappeared again.
Tate leaned in and spoke low. “You’re such a brat.”
“If you treat me like a brat, I’ll act like one.”
He flashed me a devilish grin, and I got the sense that he was letting his guard down. Please, let that be. Little by little, maybe I could turn things in my direction if I played my cards right.
“What are you in the mood for?” I asked a moment later, perusing the menu.
“That’s a loaded question,” he said, still looking at me and not the menu.
“Are you hinting at something, Tate? Because that would contradict a lot of what you say.”
“What I want tonight and what I will allow are two very different things.”
My nipples stiffened. He wants me. Slow and steady, I reminded myself.
I forced myself to look at the menu for a minute. When I looked up at him again, I caught him staring at my chest.
“My eyes are up here, Tate.”
“Actually, your tits are pretty far up there, too. Not sure what you stuffed that dress with, but they did not look like that earlier.”
“You’ve become very familiar with them, haven’t you?”
He reached for his drink and downed some beer. I watched the way his lips sucked on the bottle, feeling the muscles between my legs tighten.
A moment later, the waitress showed up again.
She flipped a page of her notepad. “Are we ready to order now?”
Since I hadn’t been paying enough attention to the menu, I looked down and picked the first thing that met my eyes. “I’ll have the swordfish.”
She scribbled and turned to Tate. “And you?”
He closed his menu. “And I’ll have the prime rib, please.”
“Coming right up.” She collected our menus and left.
Tate took a sip of his beer then slammed the glass down on the table. “The swordfish…fitting.”
I tilted my head. “Why is that?”
“Because it’s the big fish that eats everything and spits it out.”
I was about to say, “I don’t spit,” but my instincts told me that was taking it too far. I needed a different strategy, since my smart mouth didn’t seem to be getting me where I wanted to go. Perhaps I needed a demure approach.