Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Why are you both wearing mood rings?” Margot inquires, body thoughtlessly invading my personal space as the vehicle pulls away from the curb into traffic. “And why are they both pink? What does pink mean?” She looks over at my left hand prior to adding another question. “What does black mean? Are you sick? Does that mean you have the flu? You don’t have strep throat, do you?” Her hazel gaze transposes into a glare. “Does your throat hurt?”
Probably not from an illness.
I can get…pretty fucking loud when the sex is…well…worth a damn.
“I don’t know what the colors mean, Margot. I only woke up with the stupid thing, not the stupid thing and its stupid fucking instructions.”
“I’m Googling it,” she swiftly proclaims as she pulls out her own device.
My phone chimes from an incoming text, although the noise sounds more like an agreement with her idea.
Winslow: Is this your red bra??
Huh.
Is it?
I swore mine was black, like everything else I wore yesterday, but considering I can hardly remember anything post getting on the plane, maybe I changed and forgot?
“Margot, did I wear a red bra yesterday?”
“You only own two, and both are only worn under Letty’s constant insistence, so no.”
Gotta love having a detail oriented assistant.
Me: Nope.
Winslow: Then who…??
I send a shrug emoji and exit out of the message box.
Much like the mood ring, that is another mystery I feel the stranger I woke up next to might be able to help solve.
Being brought back to my home screen puts me face to face with the male in question and twists my uneasy stomach into tighter knots.
On one hand…he’s even more attractive awake than he is asleep. His build is a little smaller than those I typically go for but by no means unappealing. The fact I can see his biceps trying to break free from underneath his black tee is enough to get my bottom lip trapped between my teeth, yet when you add in being able to see a hint of tattoos being hidden—tattoos I probably should’ve gotten a better look at pre-sneaking out of bed this morning—I’m left with no choice but to chomp down harder to prevent from moaning.
What can I say?
Toned bod and tattoos?
That’s two ginos.
And if he plays hockey—in any shape or form—that’s a fucking hat trick.
Spotting his arm tangled around my waist so protectively spurs me to mumble my ignorance under my breath. “What in the fuck was your name?”
“Happy!”
“I fucked a dude named Happy?!” My head sharply cuts Margot’s direction. “Who the fuck am I? Snow White?”
“First off, Snow White didn’t fuck the dwarves in the Disney rendition. She basically mothered them.” A finger point to her phone happens next. “And second, pink—the color of your ring in the photo—supposedly means you were happy. Gonna guess all the booze in your system contributed to that.”
She’s probably right.
She’s almost always fucking right.
“Lastly, his name is Bricks.”
“That’s not much better than Happy, Margot.”
“No, but better is better, isn’t it? Like your favorite sports saying goes ‘nobody asks how, they just ask how many.’.”
The only thing I hate more than her being right is when she’s right and correctly uses the words I live by to reiterate it.
“Bricks,” I mutter to myself, name sounding wrong. Feeling wrong. “Bricks just…doesn’t…feel right.” Staring into his bright brown gaze calls to a part of my memory I don’t have full access to quite yet. “Maybe he…he told me something different? Like…his first name?”
“Black means you’re stressed.” my best friend states at the same time she points to her phone once more, clearly not listening to me. “Which makes sense when you take into consideration everything that’s expected to happen in the next twenty-four hours.”
Yes, because the last twenty-four hours were so kind to me?
Or…maybe they really were?
I mean…I do look happy in this photo.
Like legitimately happy.
Okay, like twenty two percent liquor happy and seventy eight percent regular people happy, which are outstanding stats for me, especially when you factor in the post funeral nightmare I fled from.
Wonder what lifted my mood. Ya know, besides the booze.
Is he really funny?
Is he overly sweet?
Is his dick just that huge?
God, I hope his dick really is just that huge.
“You find any more photos?” Margot inquires while analyzing the kindergarten style color pallet of emotions.
Clicking the camera roll unveils a series of drunken, blurry selfies I’m glad I never posted. All include Bricks and none include Winslow prompting me to make a mental note to text him about where his ass was during whatever happened between his guest and me. My swift swiping of things that need to be deleted—basically all the warmup shots to the screensaver—is unexpectedly halted by a video in the mix.
Oh…no.
This can’t be good.
Reluctantly, I hit play and silently brace myself for something horrendous.
“Woooo, this one’s for you, Margot!” drunk me, screeches.