Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Trina peers at me over the top of the glass that’s perched at her lips. “It’s called loading it, Graham, and I’m pretty sure you could have handled it on your own.”
“I’ll never know.” I tip my glass of smooth scotch at her before I savor a sip.
I won our bet with ease.
When pressed, I asked my wife to show me the so-called pelican statue. She got up, marched toward the hallway that leads to the east wing, and then turned and sat back down.
That’s when she told me that she’d like a martini, dry with two olives.
It’s currently still in her hand as she watches me.
I wait until she takes her first sip before I respond to her comment. “I know how to load a dishwasher.”
She sets the glass on the wooden table that separates us. It’s small and in the corner of the bar that we came to ten minutes ago.
“Prove it,” she challenges.
“No need.”
“No need?” she parrots my words. “Or no knowledge? I bet you’re one of those people who load it improperly. You probably put the bowls in wrong, so when the cycle is done, they’ve flipped and are filled with murky water.”
I disregard everything she just said, save for one thing. “Another bet? What’s the wager this time around?”
Her gaze shifts from my face to something behind me.
In any normal circumstance, I’d ignore that, but curiosity turns my head to the side. I catch a glimpse of a guy in a suit. He’s around my age, but his taste in clothing isn’t as refined as mine. Neither is his demeanor. The not-so-subtle wave of his hand is directed at my wife.
“A friend of yours?” I ask as I turn back to face Trina.
I catch her hand falling to her lap.
Apparently, the greeting was mutual.
“No,” she answers curtly. “He’s not my friend.”
I should find that amusing, but I don’t. She’s here with me. Fake married or not, I’m her date for the evening.
I turn my entire body to face the guy and give him a hearty wave. It’s not a fist or open-handed. Instead, it’s a front handed motion meant to send a clear message that I’m wearing a wedding ring.
In an attempt to drive home that point, I call out to him. “Your first drink is on me… and my wife.”
“Graham!”
The shock in Trina’s voice turns me back toward her. “Yes, dear?”
That’s enough to get a smile out of her. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
My attempt to play dumb doesn’t sit well with my wife. She narrows her eyes. “I don’t see the problem with acknowledging a stranger’s attempt to be friendly. It would have been rude to ignore him.”
“Not rude,” I disagree with a shake of my head. “Expected. This is Manhattan, Trina. Do you know how many times a day a guy like that gets shot down when he tries to make a move on a woman?”
Her arms cross her chest. “He wasn’t making a move, Graham.”
“He was.”
She takes a sip from her drink. “Since you’re the self-proclaimed expert on this, tell me how many times a day do you get shot down when you make a move on a woman.”
I chuckle. “Never.”
“Never?” She laughs. “Be honest, Graham. How many times?”
I push my drink aside so I can reach over and snatch my wife’s hand in mine. My touch is much less gentle than it was at the penthouse. I want her attention. I want all of it.
Staring directly into her eyes, I clear my throat. “I’ve never had the unfortunate experience of being turned down by a woman, Trina.”
Her gaze travels over my face before her eyes lock on mine. “I’d turn you down.”
“Liar,” I accuse.
That sets her head back in a roar of laughter. “I’m not lying. You’re not my type.”
That stings more than it should.
Naturally, my ego won’t let it slide, so I press, “I’m not your type?”
“No,” she answers swiftly.
“What’s your type?” I question, skeptical of whether or not she’s being truthful.
“He is.” She tilts her chin toward the bar.
She has to be referring to the guy in the cheap suit. I want to get out of my chair and haul him out of here so she can’t steal another glance at him, but I stay seated because I have no claim to her. She may be my wife, but that’s temporary and in name only.
“He’s successful,” she points out. “But not too successful.”
“That’s a thing?” I hold in a laugh.
She looks beyond my shoulder again. “His suit didn’t cost a small fortune, and his phone isn’t in his hand. To me, that means that he values other things more than his image, and in his world, work can wait.”
In other words, the guy at the bar is the polar opposite of me.
Her gaze gets stuck on him again, but the smile on her face tells me something is happening. I see the way her hand reaches up to skim over her hair.