Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“I’m not an alcoholic,” I clarified.
“An alcoholic usually doesn’t admit to being one,” she pointed out. “At any rate, I’m the same. I love a good drink. And I also love a not-so-good one, if I’m in a bad mood.”
“You might be able to hold a drink in.” I rose up to my feet and picked up my jacket and wallet. “But I’m an actual expert. It took years of unaddressed emotional instability, daddy and mommy issues, and deep denial to get to where I am today.” I patted my torso.
“You’re not the sole proprietor of being damaged,” Duffy said with a sad smile. “I’ll have you know, I drink my problems away too. ’Tis the English way.”
Speaking of English, her throaty voice and sexy accent were doing weird things to my libido. I think they reverted it back to my adolescent years, because the only thing I could think of around her was sex.
“Yeah, well. Bet I can outdrink you with one liver tied behind my back.” I shouldered into my jacket.
“Rubbish!” she bellowed. “I can drink you under the table.”
“I can drink and eat you under the table.”
I paused, realizing it didn’t sound good. Or, more accurately, it sounded very good, but by the way her skin turned crimson, Duffy didn’t want my mouth anywhere near her Bermuda Triangle.
“Not that, I’d never do that.” I cleared my throat. Shit. Now I couldn’t unsee the mental image of me going down on her, slurping her juices like they were a sundae. “I meant, in terms of food—”
“Food. Yes. I love food!” She grabbed her broom for the millionth time, still sweeping the same spot. “Do you like food too? You must, I suppose. You’re quite the big guy . . .” She faltered.
“I’m glad the eyeful at Gretchen’s impressed you.”
“Not big like that!” She was pale with horror now. “And, of course, I haven’t peeked. I mean, I don’t doubt that you are. Everything else about you is, well . . .”
I cocked one eyebrow, daring her to continue. She moaned, slapping her hands over her eyes.
This was painful. And awkward. And hilarious. Everything we said sounded sexual.
“What I meant was your height . . . and width . . .” She pantomimed with her hands. “Dear God, I feel like I’ve just taken my mouth on a test drive and I can’t find the brakes on the thing.”
“Just pull the hand brake,” I said with a laugh.
Her eyes dropped to my crotch.
“Not that hand brake, Duffy.”
“Oh, bugger,” she moaned, dragging her hands over her face. “Who even am I?”
I couldn’t believe this conversation had started with a prenup. I could also believe she was capable of being fun if she just abandoned her six-ton reservations and prim-and-proper-lady act at the door.
“I’m gonna go now.” I pointed at the door, like there was any doubt I would leave through there and not, I don’t know, the fucking window.
“Sure. Right. Marvelous idea,” she chirped. “Have a good day. I mean”—she glanced at her watch—“afternoon, I guess. It’s my last day at WNT tomorrow. I need to prepare, and there’s no redemption for me in this conversation.”
“Anyway. So. No prenup.”
“No prenup.” She made a Scout’s honor sign with her fingers. “But no taking my money either.”
“I’ll try to resist temptation.”
“Are you coming to see Mrs. Zimmerman with me?” She meant the lawyer Christian recommended to us.
“Yeah. Of course. We’re in this together.”
“Right. Right.”
We stood like this for a few more seconds.
Leave, you idiot. Did you forget how to use your feet? They climbed mountains for you.
Finally, I turned around and padded to the door. Practically ran to the stairway. When I got to the first floor, I heard a door open. Duffy burst out, gripping the banisters and peering down at me.
“Riggs! Wait!”
I looked up. Her face was the color of bubble gum. I was feeling funny, too, in a way I couldn’t describe.
“You forgot your mobile.” She reached down to hand it to me.
Our fingers brushed for a nanosecond. It was brief, but enough for me to feel how velvety and soft her skin was. Was she like that all over? I’d never find out.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
But she didn’t leave the stairway, and neither did I. Not until her phone rang from inside the apartment.
What the fuck was going on with me today?
CHAPTER TEN
RIGGS
Emmett: How’s Desiree doing?
Riggs: Dessert-who?
Emmett: Your fiancée . . .
Riggs: Oh, yeah. Her. Never better.
Emmett: You know I’ll sue if you’re lying.
Riggs: Can you hear it?
Emmett: Hear what?
Riggs: My balls shaking, I’m so scared.
Emmett: I’ll need to see that marriage certificate at some point, Bates.
Riggs: It’s okay. I’d be obsessed with me too, if I were you.
Since I didn’t have any assignments outside New York for the next few months, I took the train to Jersey. If I thought visiting another state would cure my claustrophobia, I was sorely mistaken. If anything, I felt even worse. Jersey was unapologetically, depressingly . . . well, Jersey. They didn’t call it the Armpit of America for its buzzing nightlife, cultural significance, and stunning views. It stank. I wandered aimlessly on Atlantic City’s boardwalk, taking pictures, knocking back a few beers. The place was about as inspiring as a used panty liner. The entire reason why I got into photography was because I wanted my job to take me to wild, exotic places.