Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
It’s too bad I don’t have tartar sauce or some ketchup for the fish filet. It might be slightly more palatable then. But something tells me asking for that would be akin to standing on the table and ripping my clothes off—completely inappropriate.
Thankfully, dessert is delicious, a black bean brownie topped with crème brûlée, and I dig into that with abandon as Chance explains that the dairy ingredients are ethically sourced, the sugar is fair trade, and the black beans are organic.
All I care is that they’re tastily filling up the hole in my belly because the tiny tofu square, weed salad, and three bites of fish I forced down aren’t gonna cut it for the evening I have planned.
Because there’s another hole I need filled too.
CHAPTER 18
CHANCE
As we pull away from Macrosine, I rack my brain because there’s at least one more stop we need to make. I just need to figure out the closest location without alerting Samantha.
“Where are we going?” she asks, her head lolled over to the side so she can stare out the window at the night.
I smile to myself in anticipation, knowing my answer is going to wind her up. “It’s a surprise.”
Her head rolls toward me. “What?”
I risk a glance her way and find her eyes boring into me. I smirk, enjoying her fire so much that I want it to grow even hotter. “Be patient. It’ll be worth it,” I promise smoothly.
“Let me guess, it involves your dick,” she snaps sassily.
I turn right, into the parking lot, and watch closely as the yellow light of the golden arches gleams over her face.
“Are you serious?” she shouts, her mood changing in a blink. “All right! Big Macs on me, bay-bee!”
She sounds like an exuberant child and has nearly thrown herself to the floorboard to grab her purse. Digging in it, she’s dancing in her seat while she looks for money.
“I’ve got it.”
“Nuh-uh, this was my idea, so my treat. How’d you know I’d even want this crap after such a fancy dinner?”
Pulling into the drive-thru line, I laugh. “The only thing you liked out of that whole meal was the crème brûlée. Everything else, especially the entree, wasn’t to your liking, though you fought valiantly to make it appear as though it was delicious.”
Her mouth drops open into an O. “How . . . what . . . it was good,” she lies.
I lift a brow, smirking at her knowingly because not only is she an awful liar, but she also barely picked at her dinner. I didn’t call her on it because she seemed so intent on making it seem like she was enjoying it, so I scarfed mine down as quickly as possible, knowing that my plan to stop and get her McDonald’s was already in play after she mentioned it.
She sighs and acquiesces. “Fine, the fish was disgusting, the seaweed and caviar were like biting into the actual ocean, the salad tasted like the dirt in my grandpa’s backyard where the dog pissed, and the tofu was okay, but I’d need like a whole block of it to consider it dinner, and that’s only with the truffle syrup. You happy now?”
My laugh is loud and comes from my belly. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more honest dinner review. “We could’ve ordered something else or left. Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because you’re Chance Harrington and I’m Samantha Redding,” she says.
“That makes no sense.”
“Can I take your order?” a disembodied voice says.
Samantha leans over me, her hand on my thigh for support, to yell into the speaker. “Yeah, can I get two Big Mac meals, with fries and Cokes, please? And is your ice cream machine working?”
“Let me check.”
Confused, I whisper in her ear, “Why wouldn’t it be working?”
She side eyes me and laughs. “That says more about your growing up a rich boy than anything else has. Their machines never work. If it does, it’s basically like winning the lottery.”
A moment later, the voice comes back on the speaker. “Ma’am, the machine’s off for the night.”
Samantha silently says ‘I told you so’ with her eyes, grinning a bit that she was right. “No worries. Just the meals, then.”
She sits back in her seat, and not missing a beat, continues our conversation as if we weren’t interrupted. “It makes perfect sense. The same way you wanted to take me out to a nice dinner, I wanted to be the type of woman you could take to that kind of place. But I’m not. I want spaghetti, pancakes, steak, potatoes, and yeah, an occasional Big Mac.”
“Maybe we can throw in a salad every once in a while,” I suggest. “You need veggies too.”
“Rich boy rabbit food? Need I remind you that you actually ate beet jelly tonight? And liked it!” she teases, sticking her tongue out in disgust. But then she smiles brightly and decrees, “I could do that. If I pick the veggies.”