Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Get out of here. I’ll get the check.”
He stands and clasps a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, Ripley. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And I’ll send you that email as soon as I get home. I don’t have my work email on my phone.”
“No worries.”
He gives my shoulder a final pat before heading for the door.
I settle back in my chair and drink the rest of my beer, taking in the scene around me. The Swill has gotten busier since I arrived. Nearly every table is filled. The music is louder than before, and the customer base has changed from businesslike patronage to a more relaxed crowd.
Georgia’s purple boots would fit in perfectly now.
I rub my forehead, wincing at the start of a headache.
The day has been long and busy, starting well before sunrise and going full speed until I walked into The Swill. Meeting Tate here was the last thing I wanted to do this evening … until I saw Georgia. Dealing with her is always the last thing on my wish list.
Flames lick inside my stomach, still smoldering from the fire Georgia lights when she’s around. I exhale in a futile attempt at recentering myself.
I hate that she affects me this way. After all these years, I should be able to manage my reactions to her. It’s not that I haven’t tried. I’ve avoided her. Ignored her. I’ve even reminded myself that reacting to her taunts and glares is exactly what she wants, and by doing that, I only bolster her life choices—mainly to piss me off.
Yet I can’t.
I’m caught on this decade-long roller coaster with Georgia Hayes and can’t get off.
We’re at the same parties. We celebrate the same birthdays. We go to the same weddings. Hell, we’re in the same fucking group text.
I can’t date women who wear perfume that reminds me of her. I stopped seeing a woman who worked with Georgia because she wouldn’t stop telling stories about their day. I returned a shirt my mother bought me for Christmas because it was purple—Georgia’s favorite color. I couldn’t wear it without seeing her stupid smug smile and knowing she’d like it, and I don’t need my days ruined over a shirt.
I hate that she gets so deep under my skin. I hate how damn stunning she is. After all these years, I should be able to manage my reactions to her.
She’s already ruined my life in so many ways.
I fucking hate her for it.
And that won’t be changing anytime soon.
Chapter Four
Georgia
“And then Eloise acts like we don’t know what she was doing in Miami,” my mother says about her friend while peering over my shoulder. “Add more cheese.”
I unceremoniously drop another handful of shredded mozzarella onto the frozen pizza. “Better?”
“Better.” Mom kisses my cheek. “Anyway, Eloise comes waltzing into the club meeting with a glow you only get from one thing.”
“The Florida sun?”
“No.”
“You said she was in Miami.”
“There’s more than the sun in Miami, sweetheart.” She grins mischievously. “I’m talking about a hot twentysomething lifeguard who doesn’t need a pill to get it up.”
I chuckle, shoving the pizza into the preheated oven.
My mother was waiting in the driveway when I returned home from The Swill. She walked toward me with a bottle of wine in one hand and a frozen pizza in the other. And on her face? An unmistakable twinkle of forthcoming gossip. Did I feel like listening to her antics? Nope, not even a little bit. But she’s my mom, and she’s always welcome.
“You don’t know if that’s what she was doing or not,” I say. “Don’t spread rumors.”
“If I were getting laid by a college-aged lifeguard with a body made for sinning, I’d want people spreading rumors.”
Shaking my head, I refill our wineglasses.
“As a matter of fact, if I’m ever in that position, consider it your job to tell everyone you know,” she says. “Pretend it’s behind my back, though. I don’t want to look like I’m bragging. And if you aren’t sure about a detail, embellish.”
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, laughing.
“Oh, honey. We don’t have time to get into all that in one night.”
That’s for damn sure.
Our laughter follows us into the living room of my small townhome. The blinds are closed, creating a coziness that I crave. Nothing is better than curling up on the couch under a fuzzy blanket and watching a romantic comedy—preferably alone so no one talks while I watch the movie.
We get situated, Mom stretching across the couch and me tucking into my lavender papasan that’s seen better days.
“What did you do today?” I ask before taking a sip of wine.
“I worked at the consignment shop for a while this morning, then met the girls for Charity Club this evening.” Her eyes light up. “You should see this dress I snatched from the shop today. It’s so stinkin’ cute.”