Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Tate: Numero dos it is.
Me: Glad I could help.
Before I can exit the app, my phone rings.
“I picked two,” I say without looking at the screen. “What else do you want from me?”
“Oh, that’s quite the open-ended question, beautiful. It’s one that I’d love to answer.”
My ex-fling’s voice dances through the line. It causes my stomach to tighten.
Victor Morrisey is a complete douchebag. At one time, that had been part of his allure. He had absolutely no interest in anything long-term, liked to fuck, and gave me space. It took me a while to discover that he not only got off by me riding his cock, but he also got off by making me feel the pain of his rejection.
And it was painful. It wasn’t an actual heartbreak, but it did hurt. What hurt the most wasn’t losing Victor. I couldn’t care less about him. What bothered me was the embarrassment that I thought he might actually like me for more than my looks. He made me believe that, but it was all a lie—one I bought into.
I won’t make that mistake twice.
“I’ll keep this short and sweet,” he says. “I have an event next weekend, and I thought perhaps you’d like to be my plus-one.”
“I’ll keep this short and sweet, too. I’d rather eat shit and die.”
“Come on. You don’t mean that.”
“It would be impossible to mean it more. So fuck off and lose my number.”
I end the call and block him.
My blood pressure pounding, I sit up and call Tate.
“I already posted the second picture,” he says.
“Believe it or not, this isn’t about you.”
“Weird.” I can almost hear his grin. “What’s up?”
“Guess who just called me.”
He pauses. “Carys, the options are endless.”
Tate’s tone is edgy, a mixture of boredom and irritation. He hates my dating life. According to him, I’m either whining about guys who want too much from me or crying about guys who don’t want enough. He says there’s no happy medium where I’m concerned. I say there is … I just haven’t found it yet.
“Victor,” I say, spitting his name.
“Did you tell that motherfucker to jump off a cliff?”
“Basically.”
“What the fuck did he want?” Tate asks, irritation taking over his voice. Yup. He’s pissed.
“He has a banquet or something and wanted me to go. Can you believe that? The nerve of that guy.”
He sighs. “I can believe it, actually. Out of all the guys you’ve been involved with, he’s the worst.”
“I have to agree.”
A microwave beeps in the background. “I haven’t talked to you much this week. How are things?”
“They’re good. Just talked to Court. She’s a mess, per usual. I had a call this morning from a music executive about helping his wife care for their plants while they’re out of town. I guess they split their time here and somewhere in the South. So that’s exciting.”
“That’s great.”
“Are you going to Court’s on Friday?”
“I’m going to try. Renn called me today and wants me to go with him to a wine-and-dine thing this weekend for a rugby player he’s trying to sign. I said I’d think about it because I’ve been traveling so damn much. But we all know I’ll wind up going.”
“You’re a sucker.”
“Don’t I know it.”
I laugh.
“How’s it been going with Gannon?” he asks, the question hanging uncomfortably in the air.
I sit up. There’s one topic I don’t want to discuss with my best friend.
I’m not sure how to answer his question. Things have been fine, just a little flirtier than I would’ve guessed. While I’m not mad about it, I know Tate won’t be pleased, and I don’t want to spoil a good thing.
“He’s … hard to deal with,” I say, nodding. That’s a fair assessment, so I know it sounds like I’m being honest.
“That’s true.”
“I’m just trying to stay out of his way so he doesn’t want to throw me out.” And to drive him crazy.
“Probably a good plan. I warned you that he can be a dick. So just keep a low profile, and you should be good to go.”
“Will do.”
The microwave beeps again. “My housekeeper left me food so I’m gonna go eat. Call me later.”
“Bye, Tate.”
“Bye.”
I free-fall back onto the bed with a sigh.
“I warned you that he can be a dick. So just keep a low profile, and you should be good to go.”
But therein lies the problem. I like Gannon’s dick-ishness, and I might like his dick, too.
What a conundrum this has turned out to be.
Chapter Ten
Gannon
“Twilight golf is my favorite these days,” Jason says, sliding his putter back into his bag. “It’s cooler. Less busy. No pressure to complete the whole course.”
“Be honest. What you really like about it is a lack of competition.”
He slides into the passenger’s seat of the golf cart. “I have no problem with a little competition. I’m here competing with you, aren’t I?”