Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I force a smile. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“Are you sure? I’m the hug master.” He holds out his beefy arms and arches his eyebrows, like he’s Patrick Swayze from Dirty Dancing beckoning me to jump up on him.
“I’m good,” I repeat, firmer this time.
“Can I try your drink?”
What? Who asks that? “No. But I can buy you one, if you want.”
“Nah, I never let a lady treat.”
I try to ease away and create a larger space cushion, but he steps toward me again. I don’t feel threatened by him, however. He’s a big guy, but not menacing. He isn’t trying to bully me with his physicality. I think he’s just completely oblivious to the I’m not interested vibes I’m transmitting.
“Yeah, so I know, my life story is…it’s complicated,” Ronny confesses, as if I asked for his life story.
Which I didn’t.
“I grew up on the North Shore. Father’s a deep-sea fisherman. Whore mother took off with some asshole.”
I can’t. Oh God, I just can’t.
Ronny’s not a horrible creep or anything. An over-sharer, indisputably, but he seems nice enough, and he’s simply trying to make conversation.
But I can’t. I want this night, this whole damn weekend, to be over already. It’s been absolutely horrible. Dismal. I honestly can’t see how it could get any worse.
No sooner do I think those words than the universe decides to bitch slap me by bringing Jake Connelly into my field of vision.
Jake fucking Connelly.
My neck muscles snap to attention, going taut with suspicion.
What. Is. He. Doing. Here.
“It sucks, you know? You move to Boston, thinking you’ll land a sick job, but it’s hard ’cause you don’t have that diploma.”
I’m only half-listening to Dope. I mean, Ronny. Jake holds the majority of my attention. With his faded blue jeans, dark green Under Armour shirt, and Bruins cap, he’s the only male in the venue who isn’t wearing black or a band shirt. He’s also about a foot taller than everyone else.
I grit my teeth. Why do athletes have to be so big and masculine? Jake’s body is incredibly appealing. Long legs, muscular arms, sculpted chest. I’ve never seen him without a shirt, and I find myself wondering what his chest looks like when it’s bare. Ripped, I assume. But is it hairy? Smooth like a baby’s bottom? My traitorous fingertips tingle with the urge to find out.
He hasn’t spotted me yet. He’s standing at the edge of the stage, chatting with one of the band members. The guitarist, I think.
I wonder if I could sneak out the door without him noticing. Having Connelly find me here, in this dump of a club, decked out in a glittery, skintight dress… That would be the rotten icing on the past-its-expiry-date cake that this weekend is turning out to be.
“And you know what’s harder? The whole online-dating thing,” Ronny is bemoaning.
I tear my eyes off Jake. “Yeah, online dating sucks,” I say absently, trying to locate the waiter.
“I get all these matches and girls being like, ‘Hey handsome, you’re so great and sexy,’ and then the conversations just die. I don’t get it.”
Really? He doesn’t get it? Because I have a sneaking suspicion why those conversations are dying. Elements of his game are desperately lacking. For example, the casual mentions of his “whore mother” and constantly referring to himself as a “dropout.” Sadly, Dope might not be putting his best foot forward, but I refrain from offering constructive criticism. I’m too busy trying to execute an escape plan.
My gaze darts toward the stage. Jake’s still engaged in deep conversation with the guitarist.
Crap. Where is that waiter? I need to pay for my drinks and get the hell out of here.
“You’re a cool chick, Brenna,” Ronny says awkwardly. “Easy to talk to.”
I cast another look around at the room. It’s time to go. If Jake notices me, he’d never let me live this down. The dress, the location, the company.
Yes. I spot the waiter emerging from the swinging door next to the bar. I frantically wave my arm.
“Sorry, just trying to get the bill,” I tell Ronny. “I—”
I stop talking. Because Jake isn’t across the room anymore.
Where on earth did he go?
“You’re leaving?” Ronny is crestfallen.
“Yeah, I’m getting tired, and I—”
“There you are, babe,” drawls a familiar voice. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
The next thing I know, Jake strolls up, cups the back of my neck, and lowers his mouth to mine.
9
Jake
I didn’t plan on kissing her. I was merely going over there to save her from the dude she was clearly trying to escape. But her lips are right there. Pouty and red and so damn tempting I can’t resist.
My mouth brushes over hers in a scant tease of a kiss. I think it teases me more than it teases her, though, and I regret it almost instantly because fuuuuuck, I want more. I want tongue. I want it all.