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)
“I’d hate to waste a perfectly good martini.”
He reaches down and swipes my glass. Before I can protest, he downs the entire thing—never breaking eye contact with me.
I bite back the string of profanity that’s primed on the tip of my tongue because that’s exactly what he wants. He wants me to lose control. It takes every ounce of self-restraint that I can muster to suppress my anger under an appearance of indifference.
“Why are you such a dick?” I ask.
Ripley leans down, close enough that I can smell the sweet citrus of my drink on his breath. “You really should stop thinking about my dick, Peaches.”
My blood pressure rises. I hate when he calls me that—and he knows it.
“You really should get out of my face, asshole.”
His gaze settles against mine, practically begging me to blink or to pull away. Instead, I move closer to him.
My senses spin at his proximity, fighting to stay balanced. And not to throat-punch him.
“So Ripley, did you say you’re meeting Tate?” Sutton asks, her voice a few decibels louder than necessary. “I haven’t seen him in a while. What’s he been up to?”
Ripley stands tall, ripping his gaze away from mine like a sticky bandage that clings a little too hard.
I breathe deeply, hoping the fresh air settles me a bit. What’s the wedding day going to be like if he acts like this the entire time? Will he be asked to play nice?
I hate how my heart pounds around him. Fight or flight always kicks in, and it takes a moment to recover. I hate it. I hate him.
“He’s been traveling a lot. I’ve hardly seen him much either,” Ripley tells Sutton.
“Is he traveling for work or pleasure?” Sutton asks.
Ripley chuckles. “I think Tate mixes the two pretty seamlessly.”
Sutton laughs. I manage to eke out a smile for her benefit. It vanishes when Ripley catches my eye so he doesn’t get confused and mistake my smiles for him.
“Tate wants my opinion on a few things before we finalize our purchase of the Tennessee Royals.”
“The rugby team?” I ask.
He glances at me over his shoulder. He waits, presumably for me to say something more so he can jump down my throat. But I stay silent. I’m playing nice, even if it is giving me chest pains.
“Yes, the rugby team. My siblings and I are purchasing the franchise. My older brother Renn played pro.”
“Thank you for assuming I’m one of the few women on the planet who hasn’t searched Renn Brewer’s shirtless pictures online.”
His lips twist wryly.
I’ve discovered one vulnerability in Ripley’s veneer over the years, and it has to do with his siblings. The six of them are known for being as thick as thieves. Ripley defends the others ferociously, whether they’re right or wrong. Our friends say that he nearly beat the crap out of his father, Reid, when news broke that the old man had an altercation with Renn’s now wife, Blakely. He’s loyal to a fault.
But I’ve noticed that as proud and loyal as he is to them, they’re a touchy subject. If I mention that Renn is hot, Ripley tenses. If I comment that Tate is hilarious or their older brother Gannon has freak-in-the-sheets vibes, he becomes edgy. It doesn’t matter that Ripley is objectively the best-looking of them all and subjectively funny. He also has a certain sex appeal that’s made me curious once or twice. And he knows all of this—except the last part. Thank God.
I can’t help but poke around a little every now and then to get under his skin.
“If you two will excuse me for a moment, I need to make a quick phone call,” Sutton says, standing with her phone in her hand. “It won’t take long.”
Ripley slides a hand into his pocket and rocks back on his heels, watching Sutton weave through the tables in the bar. The light above hits him perfectly, highlighting his high cheekbones, broad shoulders, and perfectly straight teeth. It’s wholly unfair. I can’t find a good angle in perfect light, plus a filter. This asshole stands in the middle of a bar, and the good angle finds him.
I reach for my martini, only to remember it’s empty.
“You’re paying for my drink,” I say, flicking a fingernail against my glass.
“Ripley’s buying Georgia a drink?” Tate appears at Ripley’s side with an exaggerated look of surprise. “What is going on here? I haven’t been gone long enough for hell to freeze over, have I?”
“Very funny,” I say, smiling at the younger Brewer.
Unlike Ripley, Tate is a gem. There’s nothing pretentious about him, and his self-deprecating humor softens his ego. He has a charming way of making everyone around him feel seen, and I’ve never witnessed him be anything but polite and good-natured.
Clearly, that’s not genetic.
“Your brother drank my martini just to piss me off,” I say. “So I told him he’s paying for it.”