Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 203847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1019(@200wpm)___ 815(@250wpm)___ 679(@300wpm)
“So tell me again why Mr. Dreamboat is so bad.”
I stare at my gay neighbor with all the disbelief I can muster. “Seriously? You didn’t get the whole disaster-date vibe from the turning-up-late-and-ordering-my-food thing?”
“Oh, shit. And the kiss was before you got in the cab?”
“Yep. All that pent-up sexual attraction is gone. It was the equivalent of kissing your aunt on the old excitement scale.”
“Ouch. What a douchenugget.” Sean takes a long drink of his wine. “I say Mr. TDH ruined you.”
I snort and the wine in my mouth makes a very undignified journey up my nose. Oh, shit. That burns. Fuck, it burns. I pinch my nose and shake my head.
Ruined. By sex. How hilarious.
“That’s adorable. Really. It’s not like he stole my orgasm.”
“Have you had an orgasm since him?”
“Uh, no.” I won’t tell him it’s not for lack of trying. Next time, the bullet can stay in the drawer and I’ll pull out Jack Rabbit. Sometimes, you just need the double whammy, right?
This time, Sean snorts. “You tell yourself that, honey. Maybe, if you see him again, he’ll give it back if you ask nicely.”
“I won’t see him again. You know how that shit works. One time. No more.” I wave my now-empty glass before he can speak again. “Jackson was different. I was only ever planning on seeing him in a professional capacity after I fucked his balls right off his body.”
“You’re a delight, Liv.” Sean explodes in laughter. “Truly. Oh my goodness. Okay. So Mr. TDH is also the Orgasm Catcher”—we both giggle—“and you have no intention of asking for it back.”
Because asking for that back would require actually knowing his name. Something I don’t know. And I’m fairly certain that stealing an orgasm is impossible. Illegal at the very least.
I roll my eyes again and grab the wine bottle from the fridge. “My orgasm is not lost or stolen. It’s just… particular. Some women can’t even orgasm at all, so it’s not shocking that mine should be so selective.”
“Selective. That’s what you’re calling it?”
“It’s reasonable.”
“Why don’t you think of him while you, you know? Do whatever it is you women do to orgasm by yourselves.”
My lips curve to one side. Oh, bless his heart. “No. I won’t think of him while I… Yes. That. If I do that, it could get dangerous. I might need to know who he is, and that would not end well.”
“You kicked Ross to the curb pretty good,” Sean replies after a moment of contemplation.
“That’s because Ross was sleeping with his coworker. Besides, I never really got it with Ross. He was good in the sack, but that’s about it.”
“I think you were a guy in a previous life. A straight one.”
“That’s exactly what Dayton says.” I grin. “Enough about me and my selective g-spot. What’s new in your life?”
And we talk for the next three hours, refilling our glasses until we both fall backward in a fit of giggles and pass out where we’re lying.
“Crap,” I mutter, reaching for my shrilly ringing cell. “Hello?” I groan into the receiver without looking at the caller ID.
“Liv.” My agent’s voice filters down the speaker. “I have some bad news.”
I sit upright in bed and smack my hand over my eyes at the sudden thump there. “Oh no.”
“Your shoot has—”
“Oh. God. Have they canceled it?”
“No, hon. Calm down. They’ve just rescheduled it for four this afternoon and at 961 Grenetia Garden.”
“I have no idea where that is.”
“I emailed you directions. You’ll need to leave in around forty-five minutes to get there on time.”
I quickly look at the screen of my cell. Fuck. “Okay. Cool. I’m ready to go.”
After a glass of water and two Tylenol, yeah.
“Great. Clara will meet you there, but call me after and let me know how it goes.”
“I will. Bye, Sheila.” I hang up and flop back on the bed. “Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.”
How could I have forgotten that shoot this afternoon? The fucking shoot that has the potential to make me a Victoria’s Secret Angel. This is the shoot that could change my goddamn freaking life and I’m hungover. Fantastic.
This is why I resolved three months ago to never accept Sean’s offer of wine.
Ignore the fact I’ve failed on numerous occasions. Last night, I should have remembered this. This is important. World-tilting important. Fuck that. Universe-shaking important!
I swing my legs from the bed and eye them carefully for hairs. Upon seeing a few suspect spots, I run my fingertips up my shin. Shitballs. I’m gonna need to shave.
I hobble into the bathroom and slather hair removal cream up my legs and along my bikini line. Sometimes, I’m really thankful that I live on the third floor. This is one of those times—could you imagine walking past someone’s window and seeing their lower extremities covered in white cream?
Awkward.
I pad into the kitchen, covered in the cream, and dig two Tylenol out from my “drug drawer,” as Dayton calls it. So I’m stocked for every sickness. Shoot me. I like to be prepared.