Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Why in the ever-loving fuck did I give this guy my real name? I should have just dashed. What would he have done? Chased me down?
He probably would have gone to his parents, who would have gone to Gen’s parents. Then, she would have been in trouble, and she would have had to come clean, and her parents would have gone to his parents and told them the whole truth, and he would have found out who I was anyway.
I stare him down. There’s no way I’m breaking eye contact, even if I’m breathing like I’ve just run for two minutes. Whatever. Don’t judge me. I hate running. Two minutes is pretty much all it takes to make it clear to anyone who’s ever tried it that it’s a horrendous sport.
“You won’t mess with my life because that would just be childish. You want to stop going on blind dates set up by your parents? Then tell them that. It’s your life. That’s what I told Gen. The whole notion is so silly, anyway. I shouldn’t even be here. None of us should. That’s the end of it. I’m going now. It was nice meeting you. Goodnight.”
I dig in my purse and toss a handful of twenties, which I hope does cover at least some of what I ate, although I don’t know since this place is pretty ritzy and probably overpriced. I want to take the crab legs because they are that good, and they shouldn’t be left behind, so I sweep them into my purse. They stick out at funny angles, but do I have any shits left to give?
Not right now I don’t.
I stand up and walk out with as much dignity as I can muster, with crab legs sticking out a foot from my bag. This whole thing has gone so far down the pooper.
Unfortunately, I have to call a cab. I’m still wearing the wig, and it itches like hell. I want to tear it off, but not until I can get into the backseat of a car and make my getaway. I’m not going to stand here with a wig cap on and crab legs sticking out at weird angles from my bag.
Come to think of it, using my purse as a to-go bag was probably the worst idea of the whole night, and that’s really saying something. I can’t imagine the smell of crab is easy to get out of leather.
Fuck.
If I’ve ruined my favorite purse, I’m going to be beyond sad.
I have to dig past the crab legs to get my phone out to even call for a cab.
Unbelievably, Mr. You Know Who blasts through the front doors.
Shit.
He has that we’re so far from finished with this conversation expression on his face.
So I do the only logical thing I can think of and make threats of my own. “Don’t come near me!” I brandish my phone. “I’ll scream. I’ll scream, and it will be embarrassing for you. I’ll scream that you’re trying to touch my crab legs, and no one will have any idea what it really means, but they’ll think it’s something perverted.”
“You work at Glamorous Pudding in Twenty-Seven Flavors. I don’t really understand the company name because it looks like they currently have ninety-nine, but be that as it may—”
My mouth drops open. “What the hell, dude? Are you some kind of human supercomputer? How did you know that?”
“Uh, my phone and your name. The internet comes up with pretty much anything in a matter of seconds. You’re in the marketing and research department, and your name is all over the place.”
“So what? You’re going to act like a spoiled, spurned child and get me fired just because I’m not going to play along with your scheme?” I have my phone in my hand. I switch it to the voice memo, press record, and hold it up. “Go right ahead. Let’s record this for our mutual protection.”
He shrugs, looking so casual now. Casually evil, more like. His eyes flash with way too much delight. “I just wanted to say that I love pudding. I love pudding so much. I love pudding extra. I’m actually a fiend for pudding. That’s all. Goodnight.”
Then, he walks away.
Just like that.
He freaking turns his back and leaves me standing there with my crab legs purse and my phone raised all threateningly in the air. My mouth is gaping open. I probably look like a bit of a wild child, and that’s the nicest term I can think of to describe myself.
How could anyone turn pudding into a threat? But that sounded like one. It sounded far more like I love pudding, and by the way, you haven’t seen the last of me.
The worst part of all this is that when I spin around to watch Mont leave, my eyes shoot straight to his ass. Why do men’s dress pants always have to make their asses look so freaking good? Mont’s, especially. He has a ten out of ten rear end, and even in the dark, I can’t stop myself from gaping over it.