Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
I shouldn’t have done this in the first place.
Mont didn’t overdress for this date. He did the black-on-black killer combo with a button-down and slacks that fit every inch of his tall, muscular frame to absolute godlike perfection. The pants sit low, right around where his hipbones and the happy trail I imagined probably start. The shirt isn’t tight, but every so often, he made movements that made it flex and pull tight over his hard arm muscles and abs.
He's fresh-faced, as in clean-shaven, but he’s also got that perma shadow of dark facial hair on a hard jawline, a very prominent and strong brow, and piercing dark brown eyes that don’t seem to match his dark hair. I expected soft brown with all that midnight mahogany, but nope. There’s nothing soft about the dark black, especially not right now. With all the planes of his face made cold and hard by anger, he’s so handsome that he could outdo the devil.
His frigid expression is currently making me squirm in my seat, but the way he’s studying me also makes my nipples stand up in my bra.
I wasn’t meant to find this man attractive, but you know. Shit happens. Hormones happen. I’ve had fun acting ridiculous enough to ruin this date completely, and it was entertaining to watch how he reacted to all the ridiculousness, but now that he’s frowning at me and his look is all smoldering sternness, my hoo-ha kind of wants to know if that’s his spanking face.
Not that I’m into that. Anyway, he looks like he’d give good spankings, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had much of anything in the bedroom except my own hand action, so yeah. My body is currently doing a little shivery dance while I’m sitting here and trying not to have a meltdown now that the game is up.
I never thought I’d be glad to see the numb state go, but right now, I’d do anything to get it and my blank chest, heart, and face back.
I enticingly waggle the crab meat at him again. His glare was bleak, but now it gets even bleaker. His beautiful eyes narrow, and his mouth flattens out.
Oh, he’d most definitely give good spanks.
Shut up. That’s not helpful right now.
You shut up. Anything would be helpful. We’re dying here. This is the driest spell ever.
Ugh. Imaginary conversations with all my lady bits and organs aren’t helping. Also, since when did they start giving a crap? After Jeff, I thought they’d shut down and gone permanently offline.
“Alright, fine.” I set the crab leg down. “I’m Evilla Cowbush.”
That scowl goes from a ten to an eleven in a hot second. “That’s a made-up name.”
Jesus, does his voice have to deepen like that when he’s pissed off? It’s all baritone and deep, and it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end in a good way. My nipples might be standing on end, too. Harder than before. Just saying.
“Spell it.”
“I-T.”
“Hilarious.” He does more jaw-grinding angular stuff that sends sparks through me.
“It’s my real name!” I do something dumb and fish in my purse, get my license out, and thrust it across the table. “See?”
He picks it up, and one dark brow dips down to make that scowl so much more scowlish. “Your name is spelled Evil. How fitting.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not pronounced like what it looks like. Although, if you practice saying it, it usually does come out in the wash eventually.”
He sets my license down, and I snatch it back. I hold onto it like it can save me. I still have to explain myself, and I’d somehow like to do it without getting Genevieve in trouble. I guess sometimes honesty is the best policy.
“My best friend is the woman you were supposed to meet tonight. She broke out in hives and begged me to come instead. She said your mom mentioned to her mom that you’d been on a long string of dates, and this isn’t what she wanted. She asked me to come to ruin the date so you could get on with finding your trophy wife somewhere else, and she could tell her parents that this could never happen again.”
Ooh, I think I’ve just poked the bear in his growly spot. Mont’s eyes darken even more. “Trophy wife? That’s not what I want.”
“Hmm, well, she seemed to get that impression, and that’s not her. She’s more the marry-for-love, soulmates type. You wouldn’t have stood a chance with her, trust me.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know. We’ve been friends for ages. I know her type, and you’re not it. Especially because you’ve been churning through rich women, looking for someone to put up on your mantle and carry on your undoubtedly very blue bloodline and blah, blah, blah, gross, no thanks.”