Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
As a woman who’s trained herself to forever focus on the positive, I do what I always do and paste on a cheerful smile. “All right, Bartlett. The game’s afoot.”
“The game is gonna end in spectacular defeat if you keep using phrases like the game’s afoot.” He rolls his eyes. “Let’s get us some drinks, Sherlock.”
We order a couple of beers and migrate toward a standing table against the wall, which offers a view of the entire bar, including the patio. Sipping my beer, I scope out the room. Tate’s doing the same.
“How about him?” he suggests. Gives a discreet nod to our right.
I follow his gaze to a dark-haired guy with a lean frame and an attractive face. Sadly, his good looks are eclipsed by his unfortunate choice of arm ink.
“Absolutely not,” I retort.
“Is it the tattoo?”
“Of course it’s the tattoo. I’m not sure I want to date someone who loves tacos so much they permanently etch one into their flesh. Imagine how often we’d have to eat tacos for dinner?” I shake my head. “No way.”
Tate stares at me.
“What?”
His lips twitch with unrestrained laughter. “Cassie. Baby. Sweetie. I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of taco he’s looking to commemorate.”
“What do you mean? What else—” I gasp. “Oh. Ew. No.” I glare at him. “Really? And you think he’s a viable option?”
“Why not? Means he does oral …”
“Thank you, next.”
“So picky. Won’t even consider a man who wants to worship your taco.”
I burst out laughing. He doubles over half a second later and then we’re both in hysterics. Damn it, why do I have such a good time with this guy? You wouldn’t expect Tate to be so funny. With his perpetually tousled hair and lazy smiles, that trace of a Georgia accent thrown into the mix, he gives off a slacker, surfer-boy vibe, when he’s the total opposite of that. Tate is intelligent, hard-working. And I think it speaks volumes that every single person who knows him genuinely likes him. Not many people can say that.
“How about him?” I nod toward a cute guy by the dartboards.
The bar features an entire wall exclusively for darts. It’s basically a huge wooden board riddled with so many dents, holes, and puncture marks it’s clear many a projectile has been hurled at it by intoxicated hands. The guy I point out is in the process of aiming. He grips his dart, forehead lined with intensity, when his friend sidles up to him and breaks his concentration. The guy swivels his head and snaps something. The friend, taken aback, holds up both hands and backs away like he just confronted a territorial lion.
“Are you kidding me?” Tate says. “Mr. Angry over there?”
“He wasn’t angry when I first noticed him,” I protest.
“Well, he is now and that’s a red flag. It’s fucking darts. Nobody gets that invested in darts.”
He’s right. I can’t date someone who’s so passionate about darts they nearly bite someone’s head off for interrupting.
Or is that too picky?
“Am I being too picky?” I ask in dismay.
“No. I mean, yes. Must hate darts is picky. But I also know those overcompetitive blowhard types. They’re not fun to be around.” He shrugs. “And they tend to be selfish in bed.”
“Really? Had sex with a lot of overcompetitive men, have ya?”
“No, but I’m friends with a lot of girls. They spill the tea.”
“I cannot believe you just used that expression.”
“Why? It’s legit.”
I rib him with my elbow. “Maybe you’re the one who needs pickup help if that’s the kind of lingo you’re dropping around the ladies.”
“Trust me, I do just fine.”
I have no doubt.
We spend the next little while people-watching and joking around. Despite his assurance that Joe’s draws a diverse crowd, there aren’t many prospects here for me. Mostly drunk tourists or couples. Tate goes to grab us another round of beers, and I take the opportunity to check my phone. My message thread with Peyton contains her customary one-line format.
Peyton: How’s it going?
Peyton: Is your wingman any good?
Peyton: Did we find somebody?
Peyton: They better not be a six.
Peyton: Well?
Would it kill her to send one paragraph? I have an impossible time trying to locate the silver lining in Peyton’s aggravating texting style.
Along with Peyton’s messages, I find a response from my former stepbrother to my illustration request.
Robb: Sorry for the delay! Was trying to figure out if I could squeeze it in. I just wrapped up a project at work ahead of schedule, so I’m in! Send me the story and I can come up with some concepts this week.
Yes! The children’s book is a go. I give a mental fist pump. My sisters are going to love me forever.
Before I can reply to Robb, a shadow falls over the table. I look up … and then up … and up. Because the guy who’s wandered up is a literal giant. He must be six-six, maybe even taller.