Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Wow.
For some reason, guys always looked better in person than on dating apps. Their picture-taking skills were lacking half the time, so it was almost always a pleasant surprise to see them in person. There was no getting around the fact that Bentley was handsome. He was tall and had beautiful locks of blond hair, with each piece placed perfectly on top of his head. He dressed in designer clothing. A Ted Baker peaked lapel coat and Salvatore Ferragamo slip-on loafers. I blamed my mother for my ability to spot designer clothing.
As Bentley grew closer, the scent of a clean yet smoky cologne hit my nose.
Not bad, Bentley. Not bad.
“Hi, Holly, right?” he said with a deep, smooth, intoxicating voice. As he approached me, his black Tom Ford glasses sat in front of his beautiful hazel eyes.
My cheeks flushed as I smiled. “Yes, Bentley. It’s great to meet you.”
I reached out my hand to shake his, but before I could, he said, “You look a bit bigger than you do in your photographs.”
What in the Mortal Kombat…did he just sucker punch me with his words?
“Bigger?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow. The smile I had reserved for him faded.
“You know…” He gestured toward me, holding his hands out as if trying to hug Santa’s gut. “Wider.”
I blinked a few times before dashing back to the taxi I arrived in and tapping it repeatedly. “Taxi! Taxi!” I quickly climbed back into the car, and the driver gave me a confused look before I melted into the fabric of his back seat. “Take me back to our starting point,” I groaned. He pulled away from the curbside and started back in the direction we came from.
I hated men. If someone asked me an interesting fact about myself, it would be that I hated men. I wished my lower region despised them as much as my heart had.
When we pulled up to my apartment complex, the taxi driver quoted me fifteen dollars.
“What? It was just ten-something five minutes ago!” I argued.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Inflation is crazy.” He tapped his screen, showing the price. “Fifteen fifty-four.”
“You’re joking.”
“Am I laughing?” he dryly replied.
I grumbled to myself. The taxi driver was the second man to piss me off that morning, and I still was without espresso. My mood sank faster than Jack holding Rose’s hands on that floating piece of wood.
I begrudgingly paid for the ride and climbed out of the taxi. As I walked toward the front of my building, the doorman, Curtis, smiled at me. “Hey, Holly. That was a fast turnaround. I swear you just left.”
I grinned back at Curtis. He was an older gentleman in his seventies and had been my doorman for the past three years. He was the kindest man and always greeted me in the sweetest ways. Maybe I didn’t hate all men. I mostly hated the ones in my age range.
I reached into my purse and pulled out my current read. “Let’s just say sometimes books are better than reality.”
“I gotta say, I almost don’t recognize you without a book in your hands.”
“At this point, it’s my uniform.”
He tipped his hat as he held the door for me to walk into the building. As I walked, I began reading the chapter I’d left off on. Some authors said they had difficulty reading while they wrote, but not me. Before I was an author, I was a reader. One of the only consistent things in my life was the fact I was going to read all the books possible. I was already at two-hundred and fifty for the year, and I had no doubt I’d be able to reach my goal of three-hundred and sixty-five by New Year’s Eve.
Maybe a real man hadn’t gotten me off in a while, but enough fictional men said the right things to make me blush.
I walked into the foyer of the building with my head down, reading some of the best dialogue I’d ever encountered. The banter was otherworldly, and all I could think was, “Wow, I wish I wrote that well.” I admired authors who were so deeply gifted. I found myself so engulfed in their words that I’d get butterflies.
I was so wrapped up in my reading that I ran straight into a wall before I knew it.
Wait, no. It was not a wall at all.
“Shit!” a person hollered. Seconds later, there was a huge crashing sound. Liquid splashed all over me. I screeched and leaped backward from the sight of shattering glass and spilling fluids.
Alcohol dripped from my head to my toes.
My hair smelled like a pint of whiskey, and my trench coat had a distinct hint of tequila.
“What the hell?!” the stranger barked.
I looked to see a man with the crabbiest look resting against his face. I didn’t even know grimacing could run that deep. His cream-colored T-shirt was drenched from the spill, along with the tan and brown plaid long-sleeve he wore over it. His white Adidas were also no longer white, and his perfectly trimmed beard was dripping from being soaked.