Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Perfect for drowning out the fact that Theo was actually nice to me today with one too many glasses of that Chardonnay he rightly accused me of loving.
Not only was he nice to me, I think I actually . . . impressed him? Or maybe surprised him is a better way of putting it. He really didn’t believe I could finish a mini-bottle of Jack Daniels, which makes me think he’s made some assumptions about me that aren’t true.
Just like I’ve made assumptions about him I’m questioning now after our run-in at Coyote Joe’s. He was such a dick this week at work. Almost like he was compensating for being sweet and cute at the honky-tonk, and he wanted to make sure I knew he was still this guy—leader of the pack, king of the old boys’ club.
But no matter how much of an asshole he is, I can’t shake the memory of him dancing with his sisters. And the way he was looking out for his mom, telling Waylon about her bad back? It doesn’t square up with the entitled, Johnny Wall Street prick who sits across from me during the week. Neither does his family. They definitely didn’t look to be part of the country club crowd, and I mean that as a compliment. They were refreshingly . . . loud and inappropriate and real.
The opposite of the “perfect” family I grew up in.
But I’m not going to let thinking about my family ruin my one free night in California. Sliding my sunglasses onto my head, I walk into the restaurant and see a pair of spots open in the far corner of the bar. I grab one and order a local Chardonnay, perfectly chilled, that hits just the right balance of crisp and buttery. I roll the wine around my mouth and close my eyes, savoring the flavor, releasing the stress of what turned out to be a surprisingly comfortable but incredibly long day of travel.
I open my eyes and oh God. I lock gazes with none other than Theo Morgan.
He’s standing at the entrance to the restaurant, hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He’s put on a hoodie and a hat, which he’s wearing backwards, his thick, dark hair curling out from under the brim. He’s sporting soft, tired eyes and a five-o’clock shadow, and he looks so fuckable I choke on my wine.
Literally choke, coughing hard enough to make my eyes water.
Next thing I know Theo is beside me, pounding my back as he asks the bartender for a glass of water.
“Wrong pipe,” I wheeze.
“No shit,” Theo hands me the water. “This should help.”
“Thank you.” I manage to drink some of it, calming the spasm in my throat. It does not, however, calm the epic burn that floods my face.
Theo’s looking down at me, forehead wrinkled in something that looks alarmingly like concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Yes. Just . . . out of all the gin joints . . .”
He smirks, and the throb between my legs returns with a vengeance. “Out here, it’s more like Chardonnay chalets.”
Ugh, he’s making me smile. “Pinot palaces.”
“Beaujolais bolt holes.”
“Merlot . . . something something. McMansions? Maisons?”
“My holes win.”
“Now you’re just baiting my mind back into the gutter.”
“Yes. You okay?” he repeats, hand on the back of my chair now. I don’t miss how several pairs of eyes, mostly female but some male too, are locked on Theo. He’s so freaking tall.
He smells so good. How? I feel like I smell like most people do after a full day of travel: dried, turbulence-induced BO, with notes of stale pretzels and whiskey to complete the bouquet.
I realize the hair curling out from under his hat is a little wet. He showered. He’s clean. And he looks oh-so-cozy in that hoodie.
“I’m fine.” To prove it, I pick up my wine and take a healthy sip. “You been here before? Honor Bar?”
Forehead still creased, Theo slides into the empty chair beside me. His knee taps against mine underneath the bar, and I’m hit by this tingly, achy longing I haven’t felt in forever. Physical attraction, yes. But also a longing to be bellying up to a bar with someone. Someone who looks out for you. Who saves you from choking to death, and who looks and smells delicious.
Do. Not. Go there.
“Oh yeah,” he replies easily, waving away the bartender when she tries to hand him a menu. “I’ll have a Lagunitas, please.”
“Any thoughts on food?” she asks, glancing between us.
“Fried chicken sandwich,” we say in unison, and I turn to look at him.
His eyes widen for a split second, but then he looks away and shrugs. “Second best in the world. I may have come out here a day early just to have it.”
“Second best?” I say, unable to stop looking. Who is this man in the hoodie and the hat who also flew across the country one whole day early to experience the magic that is Honor Bar’s fried chicken?