Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 80930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
"You are going to pour shots of whiskey." He points at me, and I nod.
"That is correct." I point at him while I open the bottle of Macallan whiskey I ordered three days ago, knowing it was his favorite, pouring one shot and then the other. I look at my matching Rolex. "It’s five o’clock somewhere."
"I got you a whole pizza with your fruit," he says, shaking his head and coming over.
"Why do you have to be such a hater?" I ask, holding up the shot and wondering if this is a smart idea.
He takes the glass from me. "You know I don’t drink when the season has started."
"These are different circumstances," I remind him. "It’s been a crazy year."
"Fuck if I know." He holds the glass up. "To better days."
"I don’t want to toast to that," I say. "My year has been great so far." He laughs.
"Okay, so I’m going to toast to better days," he says. "What do you want to toast to?"
"To brighter days," I say, and he rolls his lips.
"It’s the same thing, Erika," he points out, and I shake my head.
"Better and brighter are two different things." I grab my phone. "Let me look up the meaning.”
"Whatever," he says, clicking the glass to mine and taking the shot. "Aren’t you going to take it?"
I look at the amber liquid. "I hate whiskey," I confess.
"Then why the fuck did you bring it?" He laughs, walking over and putting the glass down on the island.
"Because I know you like it, and this is me trying to make you feel better," I say as he glares.
"I didn’t even want the shot," he says, folding his arms over his chest.
"Fine," I hiss out. "I’ll take it." I bring it to my lips and swallow it in one gulp, the burn stinging me all the way down to my stomach. I cough as I try to breathe and run over to the sink in case it comes back up. "The shit I do for you," I say, turning on the water and putting some in my hand to sip it. I point at the bottle. "That’s fucking disgusting."
"It’s not disgusting," he defends, walking to the fridge and grabbing me the sparkling water I love. "You want to know what’s disgusting?" He walks to me, leaning over me to grab a glass. The heat from his chest is on my back, then it’s gone in a second. He unscrews the bottle of water and pours a bit for me. Handing me the glass, I reach for it and bring it to my lips. "Tequila."
I gasp. "Tequila is not disgusting," I say, and if I admit it to myself, it is disgusting, but after a couple of shots, it’s fine. I laugh. "Remember when you drank Don Julio from the bottle last summer?" I point at him, and he grimaces.
"I thought it was going to go down smooth," he says, leaning on the counter beside me. "It did not."
"It has to be chilled." I take another sip of the cool water. The bubbles are popping on my tongue. "I told you that."
He shakes his head, and I just look at him. "You okay?" I ask softly, and he just shrugs.
"Not entirely," he says. "But I’m feeling much better."
"Was it the whiskey?" He laughs, and I slide over to him. I put my arms around his shoulders, and even with my heels, I still have to get on my tippy-toes to rest my head on his shoulder. "Do you want to watch one of those stupid movies you like?"
"Battleship is not a stupid movie." He crosses his hand over his chest and places it on mine on his shoulder. "Thanks for coming over, kid," he says with a smirk.
"Anything for you," I say with a smile.
The doorbell rings, and I know it’s the pizza. He walks to the door as I turn and grab the roll of paper towels and the bottle of water. He comes back in with two pizza boxes, and the smell fills the room. "Are you having more whiskey?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "My plan was to get you drunk enough to forget about it," I inform him. "That bottle cost me a lot of money." I walk over to the island and sit on one of the stools, and he sits next to me. Slipping off my shoes, I tuck one leg under the other. "What did you get?" I look over at his pizza.
"The carnivore," he says, opening his box, and I see it’s cooked perfectly. The pieces of meat look really crispy.
"Can I have a piece?" I look up at him, and he laughs.
"You do this every single time," he says, taking a piece and putting it on the paper towel and handing it to me.