Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“I’m not grouchy about the luggage,” I snap again, seemingly unable to dig myself out of this hole I’ve created.
But then Harlow has always had a talent for getting under my skin.
“You seem grouchy about the luggage,” she says. “Or maybe you’re getting your man period. That’s actually a thing, you know. Men have hormonal fluctuations that can cause pain and irritability, too. Testosterone levels don’t usually tend to fall until the spring, but maybe your body’s getting a head start. Or it could be your diet. Are you eating enough kale and avoiding alcohol and refined sugar?”
I press my lips together for a beat before I force a smile. “Are you going to fuck with me in front of your family, too?”
She grins. “Maybe. A little. Think you can handle it? Or are your delicate man feelings going to get hurt? If you’re feeling fragile, just let me know, and I can be gentle.”
“No, thanks. I don’t need you to be gentle. I like it rough.”
“I bet you do.” Her eyes dance with a wicked mischief that makes me long to drag her back into the truck, drive up an isolated service road, and show her just how nice a little rough can feel.
Instead, I lift a hand. “See you later. I’ll text you the room number.”
“Thanks,” she says, blowing me a kiss. “Later, Dumpling. Do you like ‘dumpling’ as a nickname? I think it has promise.”
I reach over, shutting the passenger’s door without another word. As I pull up to the check-in, I glance in my rearview to find Harlow watching me go with a shit-eating grin on her face.
She’s clearly enjoying herself, but two can play the “I enjoy fucking with you” game. I do enjoy fucking with Harlow, maybe nearly as much as I’d enjoy actually fucking her.
Not a chance. Wouldn’t even come close, the inner voice assures me with a certainty with which it’s hard to argue.
Of course, I’ll probably never know for sure.
This is a fake relationship. Fake.
Maybe if I repeat that a few hundred more times, my brain will actually get the memo.
Chapter Seven
From the texts of Harlow Raine
and Cameron Brennan
Harlow: Hey, you. Just got to the resort and thought I’d check in to see how you’re feeling this lovely wintery afternoon. I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t come home last night… Does that mean what I think it means?
* * *
Cameron: I don’t know. If you think it means that by the time I got to my date’s place, she was so drunk she could barely form complete sentences and that I ended up taking her to the ER to be monitored for possible alcohol poisoning and getting accused of facilitating his sister’s addiction by her brother when he showed up, then yes. That’s why I didn’t come home last night.
* * *
Harlow: Oh, honey. I’m sorry. That sucks.
* * *
Cameron: Thanks. Send “wide awake” vibes if you have any to spare. By the time I finished up at the ER, I barely had time to get to work before my brunch shift started, and Pierre is on the fucking warpath again. He’s threatening to sell the restaurant, move back to Paris, and leave us all to our “dreary, flavorless, American lives.”
* * *
Harlow: I mean, he’s not wrong. If he added in “artery clogging and sedentary” he’d have hit the nail right on the head.
* * *
Cameron: Aw, come on. We’re not all bad. Please remind me that we’re not all bad, because the crowd in the lobby looks ready to rip the servers limb from limb if they don’t get their seating chart sorted out soon.
* * *
Harlow: We’re not all bad, and you’re going to find someone amazing. Try not to think of last night as a failure. It was just a blip on your radar, a false alarm you’ll be glad you didn’t allow to sidetrack you when you spot Nessie on your sonar and swoop in to capture the elusive sea monster of love who’s taunted you for oh-so-long.
* * *
Cameron: LOL. Thanks for the laugh. I needed that. How was the drive to the resort? Since you’re texting instead of calling from the police station to beg me to hire you a lawyer, I assume you refrained from strangling Derrick with your purse strap?
* * *
Harlow: I did. Barely. Okay, that’s not true. We actually got along really well. For us, anyway. And he expressed interest in letting bygones be bygones and trying to be friends.
* * *
Cameron: Does he have a head injury?
* * *
Harlow: Maybe. But I’m considering it.
* * *
Cameron: Do YOU have a head injury? You know I’m a big fan of forgiveness, but whatever happened between you two at the bonfire our senior year was serious, right? Not to pry into old drama, but I’ve never seen you that upset. You cried all the way to my house and refused pizza, ice cream, and the shot of vodka I stole from my mother’s liquor cabinet.