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)
“Well, you’re wrong. But you can think whatever makes you happy.” She gets to her feet. “Thanks for not drinking my martini this time.”
She makes a show of threading through the bar to the door. I can’t take my eyes off her hips as they sway in those jeans. Damn.
They say the devil is in the details. I laugh. Not tonight.
Tonight, the devil is in denim. And the only way to beat the devil is to outwit her.
Despite years of animosity between us, I know if I focus my charm on this woman, I’ll achieve what I need to win this challenge. Because I’m on a mission.
The ultimate victory over Georgia Hayes is to make her fall for me … and admit it.
I truly am an asshole.
Chapter Eleven
Georgia
“What did you end up wearing?” Sutton asks, her voice ringing through my car speakers.
I flip on my turn signal and take the exit toward downtown Nashville.
“The peachy-colored dress that I bought for Valentine’s Day and didn’t get to wear because I canceled on my date,” I say. “Do you remember that dress?”
“Spark my memory. Half of your closet is peachy-colored, and you cancel so many dates.”
I remove my sunglasses and toss them onto the passenger’s seat. The sun hovers above the horizon, creating a spectacular wash of color across the sky. I couldn’t get the full effect with my sunnies on, and while I might cancel dates, I won’t miss a sunset if I can help it.
“There’s a deep V-cut in the front, and gold and cream flowers kind of crocheted on the fabric,” I say. “Flouncy skirt that hits just above the fingertips. Three-quarter length sleeves. Super feminine and flirty.”
“Ah, yes. I do remember that one. You look gorgeous in that. Good choice. Tell me you wore your nude heels that clasp around your ankles and gold jewelry.”
I laugh. “Yes. It’s like you know me or something.”
“I know you well enough to know that the only thing you do know about fashion is what looks good on you. I wish I had that skill.”
“You don’t need that skill because everything looks good on you, Sutton.”
“You’re too sweet.”
“Well, I’m feeling particularly sweet tonight since I had a whole spa day today and forwarded the bill to Myla.” I sigh blissfully. “I feel like a million bucks.”
Sutton laughs. “See? I totally hooked you up. You really have no reason to complain about this gig.”
“Oh, no. You don’t get to act like you’re doing me a favor here, bestie. I still have to put up with Ripley Brewer for the next few weeks. My complaint stands.”
I follow the GPS through traffic, getting all green lights as I drive toward Ruma … and Ripley.
A shot of adrenaline shoots through me.
The pep talks I’ve been giving myself over the past two days have helped settle most of my anxiety. I’ve reminded myself that I handled Ripley well at The Swill on Tuesday and walked out of there with the upper hand, just like I planned. And, thanks to my degree and work in broadcasting, I also have loads of filming experience. I’ve been in front of more cameras than I’ve been behind. Remembering that helps my nerves.
Besides, there’s no reason that I can’t have fun with this. What’s not to love about going out a couple of times a week essentially for free when, quite frankly, you have nothing else to do and little discretionary money in the bank? Getting paid to help prove your best friend is brilliant is a great gig. And having the opportunity to flirt with a handsome asshole who knows I’m only pretending, but no choice but to keep his mouth shut and just smile back? That’s gold.
“You’re meeting Myla at the restaurant, right?” Sutton asks.
“Yes. We’re meeting at the VIP entrance in the back. She called this afternoon and gave me the rundown but said she’d meet me there just in case I panicked or had last-minute questions.”
“Are you getting close?”
“Actually, I’m pulling up right now.”
Ruma looms in front of me on the right-hand side of the road. Crimson letters, lit up from the inside, spell out the name on the front of the brick building. The parking lot is packed, and a line extends along the front sidewalk. It’s only slightly intimidating.
I drive to the back and spot Myla standing beside an oversized bald man next to a matte black door.
“I see Myla,” I say.
Sutton cheers. “Okay. Go. Have fun! And, Georgia … thank you,” she says, the final words softer. “I know I’ve said it a million times, and I must sound like a broken record, but I owe you, friend. Big time.”
“You’re welcome for the millionth time. And you don’t owe me anything. We don’t keep a scorecard in this friendship.” I pull into a parking spot between two fancy sports cars. My little cracker box with a dented bumper looks very out of place. “Love you, Sutton.”