Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86596 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Oof.
Not my cup of tea.
No wonder my parents have always demurred or turned Mr. Wallace down when he’s invited them to things like this. Although there was one time my dad went with him to the ESPN awards because of his man crush on Derek Norlander, one of the quarterbacks—and living legends—from whatever team he played on.
Dad totally had a boner for the dude a few years back, and Mr. Wallace was kind enough to bring my dad as his plus-one to the event.
Dad still talks about how incredible it was, but also a chaotic affair.
I keep expecting Tripp and Chandler Wallace to meander over in our direction, given that he’s the reason I am here tonight—but they haven’t. Not really. I suspect it’s for a good reason, and that reason is matchmaking, but I push that idea out of my mind.
I don’t need help finding a partner. Thanks, though.
I go to toss my hair, forgetting it’s been coifed and teased within an inch of its life, extensions added to create fullness because my stylist couldn’t resist the temptation.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't mind getting dolled up every once in a while, but I certainly feel more comfortable wearing sweatpants and old sweatshirts from Goodwill than I do wearing couture designer gowns.
The one I'm wearing tonight I actually borrowed from a department store where my friend Christine works as a retail manager in the woman's department.
It's black because I hadn't wanted to stick out like a sore thumb and wear a bold color like pink or red (two of my favorite colors), but it also has plenty of beading and sequins, which I guess levels the playing field.
It's elegant and a bit sexy, too.
Off the shoulder.
Lower cut than the norm.
Long with a slit up the side, mile-high heels.
I feel like I’ve stolen the entire outfit or have to race out of here by midnight lest it disappears.
You are nothing like Cinderella, Molly, not even a little. Nan’s voice pops into my head, and I grin around my glass big enough that Elias notices, tilting his head.
“You look like you have a secret.” He leans in to whisper but still gives me personal space.
Nonetheless, I catch a whiff of him.
He smells like he’s just taken a dip in the ocean, fresh and cool mixed with a hint of mint? Is that a thing?
“Me? A secret?” Hardly. “Maybe I’m trying to be mysterious.”
He snorts. “Mysterious for me? I doubt that. You hate my guts.”
Hate his guts?
A ball of guilt forms in my stomach. Hate his guts? The idea spins itself around in my mind like that little rainbow wheel on my computer, round and round and round, causing frustration.
I hope that's not the impression I've been giving because it couldn't be further from the truth. Do I wanna be bamboozled into doing favors for him? No, but I don't know him enough to hate him, and I certainly don't have the time to.
Shit.
I may be blunt too often, but there is one thing I’m not, and that is insensitive.
“Hate your guts?” I set my glass down on the table next to us. “Elias. I don’t dislike you at all, let alone hate you. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
He shrugs. “I mean, you haven’t. Not really. But I get the impression that you wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t felt morally obligated by Tripp Wallace, and that you’d rather walk on broken glass than help me out.”
Hmm. “Truthfully, I’ll help an old woman in a grocery store parking lot get her bags into her car, but am I willing to start bar hopping with some dude who came knocking on my office door to fend off women? Er. No. But that doesn’t mean I detest you.” I pause for dramatic flair. “Bro.”
Bro. Nothing keeps a man in the friend zone like bro-ing him or calling him dude.
Write that down.
Elias blinks back at me. Whether it's because he’s confused by my reference of an old woman in a grocery store parking lot or because I just blatantly made his dick shrivel up by calling him bro, I can't be certain. But the look on his face has me giggling inside.
“So the thing that put you off was me approaching you upstairs at your office door?”
My nod is firm. “Yes. If I had wanted to socialize, I would have stayed in the kitchen or dining room with everyone else.”
“Fair enough. I apologize for that.”
I nod again. “Cool.”
There’s a long moment of silence between us as he searches for something new to say. “Have I mentioned tonight how lovely you look?”
Yes, he has mentioned it. Told me when I got out of the fancy black SUV that I looked stunning, though that was probably an exaggeration.
“Thanks, so do you. You clean up nice yourself.” As if the man didn’t always look put together? He is the type of man who shaves each morning, wears a crisp button-down shirt with a matching tie, irons his slacks, and shines up his dress shoes.