Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Understood.” Although I have to wonder why he’d bring me along at all. Maybe Mr. Grumpy-Asshole is afraid to fly alone?
Doubtful.
He turns to go, but stops midway. “And Fiona? Let your hair down. You look like you’re at a business conference. You stand out too much.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “But you told me—” I stop myself before I get in more trouble. “Yes, Mr. Kane.”
He grunts in reply before walking off.
God, the sort of things a pretty face can do for a man. Anyone else and I might’ve gone full-on crazy. The bastard told me to dress business-formal. But somehow, Gareth gets away with being a total pushy jerk.
I tease out my hair, massage my scalp with my fingers, and order a club soda.
Time to settle in.
I have no clue where Gareth went and I don’t care. There’s a baseball game on TV, which is just about the least interesting thing in the world, and the bar’s starting to get more crowded. I sip my drink, order wings and fries, and start texting anyone that might be around to chat. I start with my mom—no reply—before moving on to Cait.
Fiona: You won’t believe where I am right now.
Cait: Mt. Everest? Are you losing your fingers just so you can text me? I am totally worth frostbite.
Fiona: I doubt you get service at the top of Mt. Everest. And you’re not worth frostbite. Maybe a mild discomfort at best.
Cait: There’s definitely service at the top. You’d be shocked the sort of marvels technology can work.
Fiona: I’m in the middle of a dive bar in Boston “working” right now. I’m actually on the clock.
Cait: Really? For your hot boss?
Fiona: My hot asshole boss, yep. But I’m not allowed to drink.
Cait. WOW. He’s a monster!
Fiona: You have no idea. I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future listening to the most cliché Boston accents discuss sports ball events I don’t really understand or care about. At least I have wings.
Cait: Are they any good?
Fiona: That’s the worst part. They’re awful. And yet I’m going to eat every single one. Remember when I was vegetarian?
Cait: I do remember. When did that stop?
Fiona: When I came to work for Mr. Asshole.
Cait: That’s Mr. Hot Asshole to you.
I grin to myself as I go back and forth with Cait for a while. In college, we were best friends, basically inseparable, at least until she met her now-husband Joshua (not Josh, Joshua). They got super into homesteading stuff, canning food, growing vegetables, wearing recycled whatever, composting, blah blah blah, stuff that I’d actually like and be super into if they didn’t make it some excessive competition. As soon as we graduated, Joshua used money he inherited from his rich grandparents to buy land out in Kentucky, and they’ve been there ever since.
Which means I’m sans-BFF. That wouldn’t be so bad, but I did my undergrad at the University of Pennsylvania, which means most of the friends I made are from all over the country.
I moved back to Texas and realized—I had nobody left, an ever-increasing debt load, and parents that recently decided they wanted to explore their sexual horizons, and apparently weren’t afraid to talk to their daughter about it.
Which is about as gross as it sounds.
Anyway, my parents are in Florida now.
The great Fiona-exodus. Anyone and everyone in my life decided that when I returned to Texas, it was time to skedaddle.
Leaving me in a crappy apartment with my falling-apart car that’s one piece of loose duct tape away from being a total wreck.
The only decent thing I have going for me is my rock-climbing gym membership.
Which I really can’t afford, but I’m pretty sure I’d lose my mind if I couldn’t go climb at least once a week.
And I have Mr. Gorgeous-Asshole to follow around.
I sip my non-alcoholic drink, eat my healthy deep-fried wings, and think about the way Gareth shoved the seatbelt over my body. It’s hard not to daydream about that man, with those big hands, beautiful eyes, his shoulders like mountains, his slim-fitted suits—if he weren’t such a nightmare, I’d probably find him attractive.
Fortunately, I don’t. He’s handsome, but that’s different from being attractive. I want to look at him in a purely clinical way, like how I look at statues in museums.
I don’t want to get anywhere near him.
Except for when he gets all bossy and shoves the seatbelt down over me.
Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t mind if he got a little bit more exploratory. With his hands. On my body.
God, Fiona, get it together.
An hour passes. Then another. Then I’m creeping up on hour three and the bar’s jam-packed. I’m on my third basket of fries, my second order of wings, and like my tenth club soda. At this point I’m pretty sure the bartender hates me for taking up valuable real estate.