Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“What’s a co . . . hi . . . ba . . .”
“The most magical Cuban cigar money can buy.”
The Yankees score another point, and a handful of guys at a nearby table erupt into cheers and celebratory backslapping. One even runs around the room fist-bumping strangers while his buddies look on and laugh.
It’s a good night to be a Yankee.
Dorian shoots me a look, shrugs, and offers a smirking “Sorry.”
Smart-ass.
“We can still do this,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m talking to myself, Dorian, or the baseball gods. “They put Devers on third, where he belongs, so we’re back in the game.”
“The coach must have heard you from all the way down here.”
Usually when I’m watching the Sox, I tend to get vocal and animated. It brings out something in me that doesn’t always live on the surface. He’s lucky I’m reining it in tonight because it’s taking all the strength I have to sit here and not yell a string of profanities at my favorite team in the world.
The Yankees get another runner home.
I shield my eyes and take a deep breath.
I can’t watch this.
“Okay, not going to lie,” Dorian says. “But you getting stressed out is making me stressed out. You need something stronger?”
He points to my martini.
Another drink is the last thing I need, and yet, it just may be the one thing that’s going to calm my frazzled nerves for the foreseeable future.
Without a word, he flags down our server and orders two shots of mango vodka.
“Why mango?” I ask when she leaves.
His brows furrow. “Why not mango?”
“It’s just random.”
“Vodka’s the easiest shot to shoot, and mango is the least disgusting of all the flavored vodkas. Everyone knows that.”
“Huh. Just like everyone knows it’s bad luck to toast with water.”
“Exactly.”
The server returns with our mango-vodka shots.
“Now is probably a terrible time to tell you that I hate vodka,” I say. I won’t go into detail with him, but it involves an ill-fated Friday night in college and a bottle of Hawkeye vodka, and to this day, I can’t stomach the idea of doing vodka shots without the burn of bile inching up the back of my throat.
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
I toss my hands up. “I don’t know, I was too distracted by the fact that this broody, sexy guy is ordering mango freaking vodka to think about the fact that I hate vodka.”
His eyes flicker and squint, and I realize I just said the quiet part out loud . . .
“You think I’m sexy?” he asks, one brow raised.
“Doesn’t everyone?” I attempt to play off my admission. “I’d have to be blind not to notice. And you’re too self-aware to not know.”
He brushes his messy chocolate hair from his forehead and offers the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen, one dazzlingly white and flanked by dimples.
It lights his entire face.
Hell, it lights the whole room.
“Thanks . . . I think.” He flags down our server again. When she returns, he points to me. “What shot would you like this time?”
“I don’t need a shot,” I tell him, nodding to the screen. “The Yankees just had their third out, and we’re at the top of our batting lineup. It’s going to be a good inning.”
“Do you like rum?” He ignores my baseball hype.
“I’m good. I don’t want anything.”
“Liquid cocaine, please,” he tells her. “Double.”
“Liquid cocaine? Are we in college?”
“You were taking too long to tell me what you wanted, and it was the first shot that came to mind that doesn’t have vodka.”
Placing my hand over my heart, I gift him an apologetic grimace. “Oh, no. Was I wasting your time again?”
Arroyo hits the first pitch and makes it to first.
“All right.” I rub my hands together. Devers is next and then Yoshida. We should have bases loaded soon enough.
I still can’t believe I told him he’s sexy . . .
It just rolled off my tongue as if it were any other thing, like I was talking about the weather or stating a fact such as the sky is blue.
Our server drops off my double liquid cocaine just in time for Devers to strike out.
“No!” I yell.
Screw it.
I toss the shooter back and slam the shot glass on the table, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand when I’m done.
Dorian watches, almost in awe.
That, or he’s disgusted by me.
Hard to tell with him.
Liquescent heat glides through me from head to toe, though I can’t be certain if it’s stemming from the alcohol or the intense way he’s staring.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“I will soon.” I nudge the two shots of mango vodka closer to him. “Your turn.”
Dorian tosses back both shots without so much as a wince.
I push his water closer to him.
“You’re serious about that beach day, aren’t you?” he asks before taking a sip.