Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“Are you flirting with me?” Ryann bats her eyes at my brother when he taps her drink and asks if it’s piss warm yet; she’s barely drunk any of it. Correct me if I’m wrong, but she ain’t supposed to be batting her eyes at anyone but me.
We had a deal.
If it looks like she’s flirting with other people, this thing between us won’t look legit.
“I ask if your drink is piss warm and you ask if I’m flirtin’?” He throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a real gem, Ryann Winters.”
“Thanks.” She tosses her hair. “I know.”
My brother’s groupies are less amused, fake smiles pasted on their spray-tanned faces.
Why does he put up with chicks like this?
Jeez, I don’t want to date anyone, but if I did, it wouldn’t be someone grumpy and jealous who wanted to tear another girl’s hair out because I was talking to another female.
Un-fucking-believable.
“I’m glad you dragged this lazy P-O-S out of the house,” Drake tells Ryann. “He hasn’t been out this year yet, been hidin’ in his room like a hermit.”
“That’s because I’m trying to stay focused,” I shout at him over the loud, blaring sound system. “The only reason we’re out is because Ryann painted her toes pretty like and wanted to show them off.”
The lot of them look down at her feet, and sure enough, hot pink toenails peek out from a pair of black platform heels.
“They do look pretty,” my brother tells her, grinning over his beer cup. “Cute.”
Ryann wiggles her toes. “Once again, I thank you for the compliment.”
“Drake.” One of the girls tugs at the sleeve of his T-shirt. “You want to go play beer pong?”
He shakes his head. “No, I wanna hang out with my brother.”
Her shoulders slump and her mouth pouts.
“What are we doing tomorrow?” he asks me. “Should we brunch before we watch Duke’s game?”
I shrug. “Yeah, we can brunch.”
It’ll be nice to lie low and watch our older brother’s game on a full night’s sleep and a day off, rather than watching it completely exhausted and half-asleep.
“Brunch?” The girls perk up.
“Yes. It’s a tradition—just the three of us.” Meaning: not you, or you, or the brunette who for some reason didn’t make an appearance tonight.
Probably being cock-blocked by these two brother stealers.
The girls pout.
Ryann? Doesn’t seem to care—not that I would expect her to. She’s only along for the ride because she’s doing me a favor.
My date yawns.
Head tips to the side. In an unusually affectionate move, she rests her cheek briefly against my bicep and yawns again.
“Ready to go?” I ask down at her.
“Sure.”
“You guys leavin’? I feel like we just got here.”
We did almost just get here. “Think I’ve seen enough. The music is too loud and the beer is warm.”
Tepid at best.
Drake stares into his cup. “Piss warm, eh?” He sets it on a nearby table. “We’ll come with you—I want to order pizza. You don’t mind giving your little brother a lift, do ya?”
Yes, I mind.
I mind a lot.
Drake drapes his arm over the blondes’ shoulders. “Your little brother and the twins.”
“The twins?” Ryann asks.
“We’re not actually related.” One of them giggles. “He just calls us that because we’re always together.”
“Right. Yeah, no, I got that. I was just confused for a second.”
Because it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever fuckin’ heard, that’s why.
I grunt. “I’ll give y’all a ride home, but you’re sitting in the back seat.”
She giggles again, eyeing me up and down as if Ryann weren’t standing there beside me. “I love it when you say y’all. You sound like you’re from the country.”
“That’s ’cause we are from the country.” A sprawling ranch in Texas, a few hundred acres of land surrounded by fencing, filled with roaming cattle and the occasional hay bale.
I grapple for Ryann’s hand and lead us to the door, our escape taking much longer than our arrival did, everyone wanting to say goodbye, give hugs, slaps on the back, take selfies to prove they partied with me.
I call it the Goodbye Tour ’cause no one can just leave; it’s gotta be a gosh-dang production.
Still. The online tagging will be good—it’s the very reason we came tonight, so I don’t really mind it, making a mental note to shoot my agent a note about it so he can check out the socials and direct teams and scouts to them.
We look about as humble as apple pie, smiling pleasantly at those around us.
It feels fake because it is.
Ten minutes later, I’m behind the steering wheel of my truck, a place I consider an oasis to block out the noise. Except it’s packed full of people, one of whom won’t shut her yap.
“Are you spending the night at the house tonight?” the blonde—Tiffany—asks Ryann as she climbs into the back seat with my brother and the other chick, the three of them buckling their seat belts, three adults stuffed back there like sardines.