Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
But that accent.
Holy shit. He sounded posh like Cecil, without the asshole element. His voice was gravelly and deep and…he was trouble. Don’t ask me how I knew. I could just tell. I definitely should not stay for one more drink.
I pushed the martini the bartender had set in front of me toward the stranger. “Thanks, but I can’t—”
“Don’t feel obligated to take it or speak to me. If you’d prefer to be left alone or would like the attention of those…gentlemen, I’ll gladly step aside.” He slid the martini back to me and raised his scotch in a toast.
“When you put it like that, thanks for the drink.” I clinked my glass against his and took a sip.
“You’re welcome. I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you seem rather out of your element.”
“Obvious, huh? Same goes for you. You’re giving off lost tourist vibes. Maybe it’s your shirt.”
He shifted on his stool with his legs spread, smiling roguishly as he glanced down at his oxford shirt. “If you say so. I’m not lost, though. I’ve actually been here a few times.”
I made a yuck face. “Why?”
The stranger chuckled. “This bar is the epitome of unassuming. There’s little to no danger of false advertisement. That’s a rarity in Las Vegas.”
“Makes sense…I guess.” I sipped my martini, darting my eyes around the dark bar before clandestinely studying the handsome stranger. “If older, creepy dudes get your motor running.”
He barked a laugh. “I am an older dude…and not everyone here is creepy.”
“Probably true. Does that mean that you actually came here looking for beer bellies, pit stains, and lecherous side-eye?”
“No, I came for a drink.”
I scoffed. “No one in their right mind would choose to come here for a drink.”
“You’re here.”
“Case closed.”
He snorted. “And what were you looking for tonight?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I’m starting a new job next week, and I have to move and…I guess I didn’t want to think about how daunting that is. I figured a night on the town would do me good. This was not the part of town I was looking for, though.”
“Understood. Good luck to you…on your job, that is.”
“Thank you. I’m moving to England, by the way,” I blurted. “That’s where you’re from, right? The accent kind of gave you away.”
He widened his eyes comically. “You don’t say.”
“Unless that’s a fake accent. You might be from Nashville and just acting out a kink in a dive bar, and I’d never know.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing as an accent kink,” he drawled, sounding more aristocratic than ever.
“Oh, c’mon. There are all kinds of kinks. You name it, someone wants it—whips, chains, spankings, diapers.” I chuckled at his horrified expression. “The ew factor is strong for me too, but I have a few friends who like it sketchy. Not that you’re sketchy…in fact, you seem normal.”
“Relatively. But…I am old.”
“True,” I agreed soberly. “How old?”
“Forty-six.”
“Ahh, super old.”
“Bugger off.”
I snickered. “Did you just tell me to fuck off?”
“Well…yes.”
“Oooh! Now, see, that’s exactly what I need.”
He wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “Excuse me?”
I swallowed the last of my martini and leaned into his space. “Britishisms. Give me everything you got.”
“That’s a nebulous request. I’m not sure where to begin,” he said, his eyes glinting with humor.
I made a vague gesture. “Anywhere. I have to be able to communicate with my coworkers. I met one of them earlier, and he was a total jerk who—”
“Wanker is British for jerk,” he intercepted.
“Love it.”
“You might also say he was a tosser. If he were a little dull on top of being a prick, you could call him a knob or a bell end, which roughly translates to dick head.”
“OMG! I gotta write these down.” I snickered merrily, summoning the bartender over with a wave. “Do you have a pen?”
The bartender pulled a pen from his apron and gestured at our not-quite empty glasses. “Another round?”
The stranger inclined his chin, setting his hand over mine when I asked him to repeat his list of insults. “There’s no need to tattoo yourself. This is googleable information.”
“Right.” I dropped the pen and narrowed my eyes with playful suspicion. “I should probably double-check to be sure you aren’t selling me a bag of goods. Like I said, you might be from Chattanooga and the whole accent thing could be a bar act. A basic means to get laid.”
“Basic?” He sputtered and coughed around the last of his drink, and thanked the bartender for the new one before fixing me with a faux glower. “Well, I assure you it wouldn’t occur to me to fake an accent.”
“I believe you. I’m Raine, by the way.” I smiled and extended my hand.
He flashed a crooked pirate’s grin and shook it. “Graham. Good to meet you. I think.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I stammered dreamily, still shaking his hand.