Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Wow, you look incredible.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair while staring at me as if he can’t take his eyes off me.
“Thank you.” I look down again, that nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach returning. Damn, I need a drink.
I slide onto the stool, sitting directly across from him.
“Have you been here before?” he asks, resting a tanned arm on the table.
“Actually, no.”
“Oh, man. You have to try their orange crush cocktail,” he insists, and I smile with a nod. Yes. That’s what I need right now. Anything with alcohol will do.
“Hey, ya’ll!” My attention instantly snaps to my right, where a waitress gawks at Heston with a Pan-Am smile. The kind where the flight attendant is always with bright white teeth forcing her cheeks to touch her eyes. Her colossal boobs press against her navy-blue polo shirt, and she bats her fake eyelashes at him like I’m not sitting here. She probably hopes I’m his sister.
“Two orange crushes,” he orders, then winks at me. Small victory!
“Do we need menus or do you already know what you’d like?” She finally glances my way.
“I have no idea what you serve.” I look to Heston, hoping I’m not holding him up from giving his order. He smirks then glances up at the waitress. “We need a couple menus, please.”
“Alrighty, I’ll grab those for you and your beverages.” She turns, and I wait for Heston to watch her ass as she walks away. That’s what Cam used to do. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes on me. I bite back a smile, looking down at the table. He’s nothing like Cam.
“So, Heston, do you have any kids?” I start in with the questions, really wanting to know who this handsome man is.
“Nah, not yet.” He shakes his head, his tone almost somber. He’s sexy as hell. How does he not have kids with at least one woman out there? “Do you have more kids or is it just you and your daughter?” he asks as the waitress slips menus onto the table, taking a second longer than necessary to stare at Heston. I want to get jealous, but how can I blame her? Look at this fucking man.
My eyes meet his blue orbs, and I nod.
“Just me and Paige, and she’s a handful.”
A charming smile pulls at his face. He sits back in his chair, crossing his arms.
“She looks like she could be trouble.” He lightly laughs, and I do too.
Taking a menu for myself, I raise my brows. “You have no idea.”
My eyes scan the menu, finding crab, fish, shrimp, chicken strips, and more. It all sounds so good; I don’t know what to get. Since I moved, my food choices have been slim from exhaustion.
“Oh, I’m sure she has a good role model,” he says, insinuating I’m the one influencing my daughter’s rebellion. I’m not usually trouble. I’m quiet and let things sit on my shoulders, but he doesn’t have to know I’m wallflower. So, I shrug, not letting on if I am or not.
The waitress comes back, her eyes on Heston again.
“Ya’ll ready to order?” She carefully places our orange drinks on the table. It looks like a slushy in a fancy glass with a citrus orange soda smell that reminds me of when I was kid. We’d go to a little gas station down the street and get those glass bottles you had to pop the top off. It’s a sweet memory in a line of dark challenges in my life.
Heston’s sapphire eyes fall on mine, and the waitress glances at me. They’re waiting for me to order. Shit.
“Oh…um, I’ll have the shrimp and hush puppies.”
“And I’ll have the snow crab legs with fries,” Heston orders. The waitress takes both of our menus and walks away, her hips swaying. She’s really putting herself out there despite Heston being here with a woman. It pisses me off.
We sit silently for a few moments. Before the awkwardness sets in, I rest my arms on the table, leaning in to get a little more personal.
“So, what do you do for a living?” Please have a job.
“I’m in real estate,” he informs before taking a sip of his drink. “You?”
“I’m an artist. Pottery mostly.” I shrug, not really sure where I sit on the spectrum of professionalism. Realistically I’m not even on the cart.
“Really?” His tone takes on one of heightened curiosity. A little spark flickers in my chest. He’s impressed? Usually, I get looks of sympathy or “Ahh, the starving artist.”
“Yeah, I mean, I make pottery and sell it online or go to art shows.” I inwardly cringe at how timid I am. I’m scared he’ll judge me for not having a career that matches his eight to nine day job. I don’t really flaunt my work because I never love what I make. It’s nothing like my mom’s.