Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
I bark out a laugh that catches a nearby pedestrian off guard and makes them stumble a step away. This is why I brought Dean with me. Besides moral support, he always boosts my ego. Plus, there’s nothing that says “I’m over you” like strolling in with a gorgeous firefighter on my arm, even if I’m still a work in progress. “Just remember, I gave you permission to put your arm around me, but don’t get any other ideas. You’re keeping your big dick on the couch with you tonight.”
“If you say so.” His lips twist in a secretive smile, like he knows something I don’t.
I’ll bet Shane told him he was a second away from getting a booty call before Joe dropped his bombshell. Or he’s figured out the same thing I have—that depending on how badly tonight goes, I might need a night of no-strings-attached sex with a good friend to help me drown my misery.
And that’s what Dean is becoming to me.
The streetlight changes, prompting us to cross the intersection. Any second, my phone will chirp with a “you have arrived at your destination” prompt.
The sudden urge to turn around and run back to our home for the night hits me. “How do you know Drew?” When I asked—did not beg—Dean to be my plus-one to this soiree, he suggested forgoing a hotel and crashing at his buddy’s. The one-bedroom apartment is a closet, but it’s free, and Drew handed us the keys before heading to his girlfriend’s.
“Through a friend of a friend.” Dean’s focus lands on the doorman ahead, waiting beneath a green awning for tenants and their guests. “So, your code word … what’s it for?”
“High risk of a humiliating breakdown, overwhelming urge to cause bodily harm … the usual. Just get me out of there if I drop it.”
“Got it.”
“Good evening.” The doorman dips his capped head as we approach the ornate front doors, the masonry surrounding its frame molded into a floral design. He’s in the full fancy getup—double-breasted black jacket with gold piping and chunky white buttons. “Which residence will you be visiting this evening?”
“The Waltons’. My brother is marrying Sara.”
He offers a polite smile that says he doesn’t give a fuck who’s marrying who while he stands out here, freezing his balls off, before reaching for the handle with pristine white gloves. “Check in at the desk ahead.”
“Thank you.” I pull my shoulders back and stroll in.
“Joe, what are you getting yourself into?” I feign nonchalance as Dean and I pass through what the coat check attendant in the foyer next to the private elevator called the “gallery room”—a long, wide hall with a dozen paintings, sculptures, and chairs that could double as their own art pieces—toward the buzz of voices and soft music. A grand staircase clad in glass and an exotic wood finish I’ve never seen before coils upward several floors on our left.
What am I getting myself into?
My heels click against the pristine black marble floors. “Do me a favor and don’t collect any numbers tonight. It’s not a good look for my date.” I don’t need anyone pitying me any more than they already do if they’ve heard the gossip.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
I spear Dean with a doubtful look. “Please.” It’s a game between Scarlet and me when we’re at Route 66: How many random women will slip napkins and business cards into Dean’s pockets in one night? The only time we ever saw fluster cross his face was when one of them tucked a business card down the front of his pants. Way down.
He flashes a wry smile. “My pockets are closed for the night.”
“So chivalrous of you.”
My heart drums in my throat as we round the corner into a large, high-ceilinged room banked by windows that overlook the city. Any sizable pieces of furniture have been removed to make way for at least fifty well-dressed guests, plus a small army of servers in black-and-white tuxedos, carrying trays of champagne flutes and appetizers.
“So this is how the one percenters live.” The lavishness of the entranceway extends here, with an array of sculptures in corners and extravagant finishes for the walls, floors, and lighting. There isn’t a single detail that could be considered basic, and while art deco might not be to my taste, I admire the detail.
As if sensing my trepidation, Dean slips a warm hand on the small of my back and leans down to whisper in my ear, “How do your tits look so damn good in that dress?”
I snort, seeing the crude question for what it is: a distraction more than a come-on. “Two words: boob tape.”
Genuine surprise fills his face. “You can tape those things?”
“You expect me to believe that with all the breasts you’ve fondled, you’ve never come across boob tape?”
He frowns in thought. “None that I noticed.”