Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 69759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
The only difference is Dom is bigger, musclier, and I’m short and curvy. I’m sure that’s where the curse of our family fell in, right to my thighs and hips, because, man, I am packing. Of course, I’m not sad about it, I am what I am, but being a touch taller like Dom might have been nice.
It would have made me look less ... full.
“Why are you running at me with a piece of paper in your hand, Dom? You could just approach me like a normal person.”
“I found a woman, a woman that I’m going to be with, and she’s going to be singing right here.”
He stops in front of me, shoving a stray lock of hair from his face. My twin brother is handsome, no doubt about it, we have good genetics and every single one of us was blessed with incredibly attractive faces.
“Okay, you’re scaring me. You can’t just find a woman and decide you’re going to be with her, show me this.”
I snatch the paper from his hand and see an advertisement for a woman looking to fill slots at open mic nights. There is a picture of her on the sheet of paper, guitar in hand, and she’s certainly pretty. Blue eyes, blond hair, mousy looking features. She’s small and very ... country.
“I don’t do country singers here, Dom. You know that. I can’t handle it.”
“She can sing other things,” he mutters, snatching the paper from my hand. “I heard her, I also told her we could put her in.”
“You can’t do that!” I cry, throwing my hands up. “That’s not how it works.”
“I’m the better half of you, therefore I make decisions for both of us,” he informs me, crossing his arms.
“You literally do not get to make decisions. She’s a country singer. So what if she can sing other stuff? I don’t want country singers in my café.”
“What have you got against country singers anyway? They’re quite charming.”
I roll my eyes. “You sound like an eighteenth century lord when you talk like that, stop it. And I don’t like them because they’re just so ... depressing. Someone always leaves them, or their dog dies or ...”
“What song is about a dog dying?” Dom argues, narrowing his eyes.
“I don’t know, one of them.”
“You’re wrong, and she’s coming to sing here, tonight. Don’t hurt me.”
He spins around and runs out, yelling out that he loves me.
God damned brothers.
God damn family.
This is my café, dammit.
It’s mine.
I’M LYING ON THE SIDEWALK after attempting to a morning jog, tripping over the curb, and falling flat on my back. In the main street. In front of everyone. So far, nobody has offered to help me up. I’m right outside my café, I work here, and still nobody is rushing to help me.
People really are rude.
I could get up, I should get up, but the shame that’ll befall me when I do is going to be something I’m not quite ready for yet. I wonder how many people are looking at me right now, laughing. Probably with their phones out. I’ll be a YouTube sensation by the end of the day.
I turn my head to the side with a groan and see an older lady, and my full-time enemy, walking past with her fluffy little dog. She walks past every single day and, every single day, she gives me the same look. Horror. Disgust. I’m not entirely sure what I’ve ever done to her, but she really doesn’t like me.
She has never liked me.
Not even for a second.
I tried, for a while, to be nice to her and she wouldn’t have it.
So, I got done.
Old cow.
“What are you looking at, Karen!” I call. “Move along.”
She scoffs, her old face scrunching up in utter horror. “My name is not Karen!”
“It should be,” I throw back with a scoff.
Mortified, she picks up her pace and disappears.
Thanks for the help, lady.
A shadow looms over me, blocking the sunlight, and I turn my head to see a very large, very good looking man staring down at me. He tips his head to the side and takes me in. For a moment, I just stare at him, wondering where the hell he came from and why he’s staring at me instead of helping me up.
“You abuse everybody while layin’ on the ground, on a sidewalk?” he asks.
He’s got a very masculine voice, all thick and husky.
Perhaps I hit my head harder than I thought.
I notice he’s wearing leather, jeans and, I’ll take a wild guess, boots. His hair is dark, long, and falling over his shoulders—it’s thick and incredibly nice. Why do men always get the nice hair? He has a beard that would make any woman wet and eyes as blue as the sky itself. He’s gorgeous, but what the hell is he wearing?