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)
A hesitant smile touches his lips. He’s got a sweet-looking face. “Hey,” he says. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be sitting all alone.” Then he winces. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s a terrible line.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I mean, it’s not the most original, but it does the job.”
“Mind if I join you? My friend kind of ditched me.” He gestures toward a booth across the room, where a young couple is eating each other’s faces off. And I’m pretty sure she has her hand down his pants. They’re either going to be kicked out any second, or soon the entire bar will witness an enthusiastic bout of public sex.
“Wow,” I remark. “They’re really going at it.”
“Yeah. I know. He does this every weekend.” The giant makes a face. “He’s the worst person to go out with.”
“And yet you keep doing it every weekend …”
“Maybe I’m hoping one day I’ll find a cute girl to keep me company.”
“Nice. That line was much better.”
“Thank God.” He gives a tentative smile and rests one forearm on the table. “I’m Landon.”
“Cassie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Cassie.”
His shyness is slowly melting away, so of course my wingman chooses precisely that moment to return with our beers.
Landon takes one look at Tate and instantly goes on guard. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were with someone.”
“No, no, we’re not together,” I say. “This is my friend Tate.”
“I’m her wingman,” Tate supplies.
Landon laughs, but the sound is laced with discomfort. “That’s, um, cool.”
Tate flicks up an eyebrow. “I’m also her gatekeeper.”
“You are not.” I turn to reassure Landon. “He’s not, I swear.”
“Of course I am. I’m not letting my friend leave here with anyone unless I know their intentions.” Tate crosses his arms in some macho posturing move that makes me roll my eyes. “So.” He pins Landon with a stern stare-down. “Please state your intentions.”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “Just ignore him.”
“I’m serious. Intentions. State ’em. I’m waiting.”
Landon shifts awkwardly, and he’s so big that he can’t help jarring the table. I’m surprised the liquid in our bottles doesn’t start rippling like in Jurassic Park when the T. rex walks up. With an uncertain expression, he finally pieces together a response.
“Um. I don’t know. I thought I’d buy her a drink. Is that okay? I think she’s cute, and, um …” I don’t know if it’s the word cute that causes him to lower his eyes to my boobs, or if he’s simply trying to avoid Tate’s death glare and it’s pure coincidence where his gaze lands.
Either way, it earns him a warning growl from Tate. “Eyes on me.” He points two fingers at his own eyes as if to punctuate that.
“I’m sorry.” Landon’s panicking. “I …” He takes a step away. “You know what? I think my friend’s calling me.”
Nobody is calling him, but my poor sweet giant has apparently decided that watching his friend grope some chick is better than being subjected to Tate’s outrageous interrogation.
“Cockblock,” I accuse, scowling at my wingman.
“Nah. Trust me, that’s not our guy.”
“Why not?”
“He kept apologizing for everything. And he was too nervous.”
I object to the latter. “Nervous can be endearing.”
Tate is quick to disagree. “He asked if it was okay to buy you a drink. Is that really what we want? No. We want someone who’s proactive. Someone with confidence. Dude over there is the kind of guy who asks for permission to hold your hand.” He pauses. “If you were only allowed to use one word to describe what you want from your fling this summer, what would it be?”
“Passion,” I answer without thinking, and immediately regret that decision.
The air between us shifts, growing thicker, headier. Or maybe it’s only happening on my end. Maybe I’m only imagining that his lips are slightly parted, that his blue eyes suddenly appear darker, loaded with heat. There’s no way those eyes are smoldering at me right now.
“Passion,” he echoes, his voice a bit raspy. I swear I see him gulp. Then he clears his throat and shrugs. “Are you telling me you think that guy actually fits the passion bill?”
“No,” I admit.
“Then I’ve done my wingman duty.”
We finish our second beers and order a third round, eventually drifting over to the dartboard wall to play a couple of games. After Tate beats me for a second time, the guys next to us, a pair of brothers visiting from New York, challenge us to a game. Two on two. I’m downright terrible, but luckily my counterpart is equally atrocious. Tate and his counterpart are stupidly good, hitting bullseye after bullseye while the other guy and I glumly watch our teammates outshoot us. At this point, we’re completely inconsequential to the outcome of the game. Those two are basically battling it out alone.
“We suck,” the guy informs me. They introduced themselves earlier. I can’t remember his brother’s name, but his name is Aaron. He’s tall and lean, with bright brown eyes, a great smile, and not a single pink taco tattoo.