Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
“Beautiful, I have nine rock hard inches all for you.”
And I have a little vomit in my mouth.
“Is it pretty?” I find myself purring, which is weird, because:
Only one person has ever made me feel cat-like.
Penises usually have that lump of feckless flesh attached to them called man, and,
I’ve only ever met one pretty penis in my life (see: point 1) and that was enough heartache for me.
“I’ve been told so, on occasion.”
“Well, Kris. It was Kris, wasn’t it?”
“Kristof.” He smiles as I mirror his stance, leaning my elbows against the bar as I find one of the long cocktail spoons in my hand. Just look at him. He totally thinks this is in the bag, and by this I mean me, and by bag, I mean bed.
“Well, Kris, it’s like this . . .” I tap the spoon against the bar top, then stroke it a little suggestively for good measure. His eyes avidly follow the motion, though rise to mine as I pause. “I’m afraid I find myself in the position of having to decline.”
“I like a girl who plays hard to get.”
“I’m serious.” My shoulders slump, my lips already pursing because I am seriously uninterested and seriously unimpressed.
“Just tell me how you like your eggs in the morning.”
“I like them un-flipping-fertilised!” My answer explodes from gritted teeth. “Are your ears painted on, because I would rather be poked in the eye with a syphilitic penis than go home with you!” As I get to the end of my outburst, I realise I’m holding the long spoon in what might be considered a threatening way. A scoop-out-your-eyeball sort of way.
“Okay, I get it!” Kristoff holds up his hands as though I’m holding a gun to his face, not a cocktail spoon. “You’re not interested.”
“Finally!” Metal clanks against metal as I drop the spoon to the sink. “Now, just . . . go away!”
He scrambles from the chair and I turn to a waiting customer when my stomach lurches. An acid queasiness washing through me because that’s not a customer sitting at the end of the bar.
It’s the devil himself.
Or, at least, the man who recently broke my heart.
I stick my hands into the back pockets of my pants because the urge to grab the paring knife next to the chopping board full of lemons and limes is so tempting.
“Did you not see me almost de-eyeball that creep,” I say almost conversationally, coming to a stop in front of the gorgeousness that is Carson Hayes. Dressed in jeans, an open necked shirt and a sports jacket, his arm rests casually on the bar top yet his spine is quite straight. An understated though super expensive watch wraps his masculine wrist, his thumb and forefinger bracketing a lowball glass. He looks like he’s on a photoshoot for GQ magazine. All he’s missing is the backdrop. Maybe an English country house, a vintage Jaguar parked on the drive.
Wait, that’s a Taylor Swift music video, right?
Who served him? I’m going to add their name to my murder by spoon list, too.
How come I didn’t sense his presence? Is that not weird?
Does it mean I’m getting over him?
My mind is awash with questions, questions I can barely concentrate on for the thundering of my heart.
“I saw.” His mouth plays at a smile, not quite giving in.
Oh, man, I played what went on at the other end of the bar all wrong. If I’d realised Carson was here, I might’ve used Kristoff as a ploy. A look-at-me-so-happy-and-moving-on-without-you kind of ploy.
Dammit.
“And that was just for hitting on me. The mood I’m in, imagine what I’d do to someone who I really don’t like.”
“I am imagining.” His gaze sweeps over me and I swear it feels like the brush of fingertips that makes my nipples stand to attention under my pale T-shirt, poking the sides of my apron. I pull my hands from my back pockets and fold them over my chest as I take a deep breath and remind myself that if there’s anyone who needs de-eyeballing in this place, it’s him.
“Well . . . well, just you stop that.”
“Stop imagining?” His forefinger and thumb bracket his low-ball glass, his voice all silky and smirky and amused—all the things he has no right to be. Not the way we left things. Not the way he turned up at my doorstep days afterwards, looking as desperate and crushed as I’d felt. As I still feel some moments.
“What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” He lifts his glass in a careless gesture, though the glint in his eyes is anything but casual. “I’m happy to see you can take care of yourself.”
“Yes. That’s right. I can.”
“I’m not sure your boss will see it as a reasonable defence, though. Isn’t the customer always right?”
“Not when he’s offering you his dick.”