Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66767 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“I do dance,” I say, my cheeks heating as I glance between Marvin and Barrett, whose glaring at me down his perfect nose, like this is somehow my fault. “I dance all the time, Barrett. And I was dancing when you grabbed me, Marvin.”
Marvin snorts. “Oh yeah, you were. I forgot. I’ve been drinking.” A hopeful look brightens his bleary eyes. “So, you do want to dance then?”
Before I can respond with a firm “no, I do not, I want to go back to my friends,” Barrett cuts in, “If you dance, why are you always by the cake at weddings?”
“I’m not always by the cake,” I shoot back.
“Yes, you are. Or by the cheese plate. Not that I’m judging, I’ve just never seen you on the dance floor.”
“That’s not true.” I prop my hands on my hips. “I danced all night at Melissa’s wedding. I did the Electric Slide, YMCA, and the Macarena.” I try to hold back the next part, but it comes out anyway. “I even slow-danced. With you!”
“You did?” Barrett’s forehead wrinkles and his brows pinch above his blue eyes. Those whip-smart, dreamy eyes I gazed into while we danced at that wedding, praying I’d see a spark of the same attraction I’ve felt since I was twelve.
But he’d looked at me the way he always did, like I’m still a scared little girl who needs someone to sit with her until the other girls at the sleepover are done watching horror movies.
Like I’m sweet and likeable, but at least a little bit ridiculous.
It is ridiculous to be scared of a doll that murders people with a knife.
It is not ridiculous to expect a man you’ve been friends with for most of your life to remember that you like to dance. And that he did, in fact, dance with you himself on more than one occasion.
“I’m not forgettable or invisible,” I say, the words out before I consciously decide to speak them. I don’t decide to poke Barrett in the chest with my finger, either, but suddenly I’m doing that, too. “I’m not the butt of the joke or a kid in need of your protection.”
“You would rather I let Marvin hump your leg without intervening?” Barrett asks, still glaring at me like I’m the one who’s out of line.
“I wasn’t going to hump her leg,” Marvin says.
“Shut up, Marvin,” I say, jabbing my finger in the general direction of his face for a beat before returning it to Barrett’s stupidly sculpted chest.
A man who spends most of his time in a doctor’s office shouldn’t have a body like his. It isn’t fair or kind to those of us who would like to stop lusting over him, and I’ve had enough whiskey to be pissed about that, too.
“It’s fine to intervene,” I rush on, “but there’s a way to do that without insulting the person you’re trying to help.”
“How did I insult you?” Barrett shakes his head, as if he truly has no idea what I’m talking about.
“Well, if you ask me,” Marvin says. “I think it was when you said that you—”
“Shut up, Marvin,” Barrett barks, before adding in a softer voice. “I’m not going to argue with a drunk woman. We can discuss this on Monday when you’re sober. Or better yet, we can forget this discussion entirely. I’m sure that will be less embarrassing for everyone.”
“Embarrassing?” I squeak, so angry it feels like my head is about to explode. “I have nothing to be embarrassed about. Unlike you, you arrogant, entitled, smug jerkface poo-poo head!”
Barrett takes a step back, his eyes widening.
He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head that speaks entirely in Pig Latin, but I don’t let it throw me. I said what I said, and I meant it—though I wish I’d used harsher language than “jerkface poo-poo head.” But years of conditioning myself not to curse in front of patients or their small children is hard to break, nearly as hard as the voice in my head that insists that I can’t flip Barrett off and storm away without saying goodbye.
But flip him off and storm, I do.
I dimly remember telling Tatum that I’m leaving the club and being desperately envious of the way Drew, Barrett’s brother, is looking at her—like she’s the answer to all his prayers as well as a fully grown woman worthy of his consideration and respect.
And then I’m outside in the parking lot, stomping toward my SUV as fast as I can in my three-inch boots. I’m nearly five four in heels, but still feel like an Oompa-Loompa compared to Barrett. He’s over six feet tall, with the long legs that come with it.
Which means he catches up with me long before I reach my vehicle.
“Give me your keys,” he demands, holding out a bossy hand.