Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Stressed? About what?” I ask, taking another swallow of water.
He shrugs. “I tried to follow along. But all I got was wrinkles, calcium pills, and a sperm bank.”
I cough, water spewing across the kitchen. My words from earlier echo through my brain. “I have an idea … You can have a baby and tell my mom it’s mine.”
“Are you all right?” Brock asks, concerned yet curious.
“Yeah.” I suck in a breath before coughing again. My voice is raspy, my throat burning. “I’m fine.”
“Okay …”
I sputter until I can breathe easily again. Just as I recover, Ella comes bopping by again.
“We decided on dinner, and we’re leaving in an hour, boys,” Ella says, heading back to her room. “Brock, can you grab my luggage? I need to shower. And do one of you two think you can pull your magic I’m famous card and get us a reservation?”
“I’ll do it,” Brock says. “I’ll grab your suitcase, and you can tell me where you want to go.”
“Thanks, babe.”
“See ya in an hour, I guess,” he says to me.
Judging how long “fifteen minutes” is in his book, will we even see them again tonight?
“See ya,” I say.
I empty the water bottle and then toss it in the garbage. I need to stop with the single-use plastics. I also need a shower—and a blow job, but that looks out of the question.
Irritated, I head toward my room. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my texts.
Ripley: You didn’t wind up with my sunglasses in your bags, did you? The ones with the gold frames that I wore to the concert.
Me: Nope. Did you ask Tate? It would be a very Tate thing to wind up with your glasses.
Ripley: Funny. He said the same thing about you.
I roll my eyes, bumping my room door shut with my hip.
Ripley: Remember Carly from the Beau McCrae after-party?
Me: I’m bad with names.
Ripley: Of course. Let me try again. Red hair. Ginormous ass. Black leather skirt. Hung out with us for a while.
Oh, yeah. I grin.
Me: Turns out I’m great with adjectives.
Ripley: Well, she wants your number. Said she hit you up on Social but didn’t know if you’d ever see it.
Me: I never check that shit. It’s a sea of sharks.
I move away from the text app and open Social instead.
Ripley: I figured.
My eyes bulge at the number of unread messages in my account.
Me: The last time I responded to a girl on Social, it cost me a cease & desist.
Ripley:
“There was nothing funny about that,” I mumble, hitting my profile picture. I find my followers list and click it. My stomach swirls as I type in Blakely’s name.
Ripley: So, Carly? Yes or no on the number?
Blakely Evans follows you.
“That’s my girl.” I open her profile page, entirely too satisfied by this revelation. “Holy fucking shit. Why have I never looked at this before?”
Each picture provides a deeper insight into her world.
I sit on the edge of my bed and swipe through her posts. Blakely with Ella. A stack of books—romances, maybe. A cup of coffee. Blakely with Brock when they were younger, posted with a story about Christmas morning.
Ripley: Don’t ignore me, asshole.
Me: I’m busy.
I type Tate’s name in the search bar. Once I’m on his profile, I ignore the plethora of shirtless images and click on his followers.
Ripley: So that’s a no to Carly?
I growl, going back to the texts.
Me: No to Carly.
Ripley: Good choice.
I pause.
Me: Was this some kind of test from Dad and Gannon?
Ripley:
“Fucker.”
I open the app again, and this time, I type Blakely’s name into Tate’s followers.
No users found.
“Ha,” I say, laughing as I drop my phone onto the bed. With more satisfaction than I should have, I head for the shower.
CHAPTER 5
Blakely
“Now this is self-care.”
I lift my foot out of the water. Bubbles form a chain around my ankle, dripping lazily back into the tub. I close my eyes, resting my head against a bath pillow that doesn’t slip no matter how much I move. And, after fiddling around with the buttons on the side, I discovered the glass opens onto a small balcony, essentially allowing you to bathe outside … but not.
It’s incredible.
Citrus and eucalyptus scents fill the room. I searched high and low for bubble bath but came up empty. My shampoo sufficed, and thanks to a candle by the bed, I created a mini in-room spa experience. Close enough, anyway.
Hot water caresses my body, causing the stress and tension I’ve been carrying to leach into the tub.
And, apparently, my emotions.
Tears prickle my eyes as I gaze through the windows and across the Strip. It’s a beautiful view from a luxury suite that I’m enjoying while preparing for a night out with three of my closest friends. I’m so lucky, so grateful. But still …