Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 89142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I’m not sure where I’m going. Isabella and Gigi probably already have plans. It’s Saturday night. Gigi is almost always busy on Saturday, and Isabella is about seventy-five percent of the time. Neither has had a serious relationship since our college days, so they can teach me the ropes now. Show me where to meet the good-quality men.
Hell, I don’t even care if he’s good-quality. I kind of just want to get laid. I still have the card from the Long Island Playboy…
I haven’t eaten, but I’m not particularly hungry. I went on a food bender after Penn told me he was cheating. I had been practically starving myself for the previous two months so I could be svelte on my wedding day, and I went a little overboard after the breakup. After a week of chili fries and Ben & Jerry’s, I haven’t been very hungry since.
Part of me wishes I’d stayed for the champagne toast, but only because alcohol sounds pretty good right now.
I duck into the first bar I see.
It’s on the first floor of a residential building owned by Braden Black, the blue-collar billionaire, which means it’s ultra-swanky—marble flooring, dark wood, and top-shelf liquor lining mirrored glass shelves. Lucky for me, there happen to be a couple of empty stools at the bar. I grab one and fish my credit card out of my purse.
A bartender steps forward, and boy is he hot. Blond with gorgeous blue eyes, and his name tag says Alfred.
He meets my gaze. “Hello there.”
“Hello, Alfred.” I try to smile at him, but it feels fake.
“You look like you could use something to take the edge off.”
“My God, you have no idea. What do you recommend?”
He hands me a menu of custom cocktails. “Do you like sweet drinks? Or do you prefer them on the drier side?”
I glance at the menu but lack the mental energy to process any of the drink descriptions. “At the moment I’m thinking anything with alcohol will do.”
“Been that kind of day, huh?”
“Like I said before, you have no idea.”
“Tell you what.” He smiles. “Let me mix you up something special. I feel like you need a dash of sweetness in your life tonight.”
He probably says that to everyone. “Sure. Whatever. I’m game. But not too sweet.”
Alfred turns away, and I let out a breath. I have no idea what I look like. I did my hair and makeup before I met my parents and Mandy at the restaurant, but I haven’t checked it since then. And you know what? I don’t care.
Someone slides into the seat next to mine.
I look up.
And I suck in a breath.
The man turns to me, his face half obscured with a white mask that covers his eyes and his right cheek. It looks glossy, as if it’s made of porcelain, but it can’t possibly be. That would make it heavy. It’s tied behind his head with a black silk ribbon.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a deep and husky voice. “Did I startle you?”
“No. It’s just…your costume.”
He tilts his head. “What makes you think it’s a costume?”
“Well…” I look over my shoulder. “No one else seems to be dressed like you. Are you part of the entertainment for the night?” There’s no stage here, so he’s probably not here to entertain.
“Maybe this is what I wear all the time. Did you ever think of that?”
I can’t help staring. His hair is the darkest brown—it looks black, except for the hints of gold when the light hits it just right. His eyes are the color of rich coffee, and his jawline is stubbled in black and could be sculpted out of marble. His skin is lightly tanned, and I long to see his full face. I can sort of see half of it, as the Phantom of the Opera mask only covers his eyes and the right side of it.
He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the first two buttons undone, and dark chest hair peeks out. Black jeans and black slip-on shoes, no socks.
And of course, a black velvet cape around his shoulders.
“Okay, then,” I say, trying not to fidget. “So this is what you normally wear?”
“I didn’t say that. I said what if it were?”
“Then I’d say you’re trying to hide something.”
He smiles. His lips are full and pink, and for a moment I wonder what they would feel like against my own.
I clasp my hands together to keep from wringing them. I’m not sure what to think of this guy yet. “Then level with me. Is this what you normally wear, or are you pulling my leg?”
Before he answers, Alfred approaches us. “Good evening, Phantom. The usual tonight?”
“Yes. Thank you, Alfred.”
Phantom? He’s actually called Phantom? Now that’s intriguing. What is this guy’s story?
“What’s the usual?” I ask him.
“The usual,” he says, enunciating slowly, “is a dry martini with two olives and a dash of St-Germain.”