Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
I’m happy for her, but damn—talk about a plot twist none of us saw coming.
Now that Mad is seeing Joe and Tenley is too consumed with work to care about her personal life, I’m the only truly single one in the group, and there’s nothing drunk friends like more than going to clubs and trying to set the single one up. It’s basically a competitive sport in this neck of the woods.
I should’ve known this night out on the waterfront in downtown Portland was a mistake.
I hold up my hands. “Guys. I’m fine being—”
“Right,” Mad says, cutting straight through the lie. “We get it, Stass. You don’t need a man, but you do need someone to keep your bed warm sometimes and spoil you with fancy dinners and the occasional weekend away. As your roommate, I’m officially making it my mission to find you one.”
She starts scanning the place like the Terminator searching for John Connor, her eyes practically glowing laser-red. I don’t tell her she’s wasting her precious energy. Houlihan’s used to be a popular hangout when we were at USM, but the youngest person here is easily ten years older than us. All the “cool” kids must have moved onto whatever the hottest new place is. Other than a couple of beer-bellied, balding guys at the bar and Bug Eyes, it’s slim pickings.
I groan and slip out of the booth. “We need another pitcher.”
The moment I step away, they lean together, whispering. I don’t have to guess what the topic of their gossip is: What can we do to help our poor, lonely, sad Stassi? She must be miserable. She needs to get laid. I don’t know why she’s being so stubborn? Do you think she’s still hung up on Mason?
My phone buzzes as I’m placing my order at the bar. I glance down in time to spot an incoming message from my dating app.
I sniff a laugh.
Talk about divine timing.
I’m about to delete the app off my phone when I catch sight of what the message says.
DocMansfield: Remember me?
I wrack my brain.
The Doc part doesn’t ring a bell.
But Mansfield?
The only Mansfield I know is Alec—a guy who, years ago, tore out my heart and used it for target practice … amongst other things.
I refuse to believe I could’ve matched with him. We aren’t even oil and water. He’s some toxic chemical that will burn your skin right off your bones.
Thumbing to his profile to investigate, I find a photo of a guy lying back on what looks like a neon yellow surfboard, staring up at the sun, his rippled abs glistening like he just slathered them in tanning oil.
I vaguely recall swiping right on him, but only because he was undeniably hot and I was on my third glass of vino.
I swipe to the next photo and zoom in, noting his barely-there five o’clock shadow, polished aviator sunglasses, and disarming smile. That and his backwards Yankees ball cap.
I’ve always been a sucker for a hot guy in a backwards hat.
No wonder I swiped on him.
I flick to the next image—an upper body shot. Shirtless, of course. His cheeks are more chiseled in this one, and his muscled shoulders veer into corded steel biceps and finish with bulging veins that snake up his forearms. There’s a hint of a tattoo, peeking up from the collar of his t-shirt. Though it was a little blurry, it showed promise. Plus, I must’ve seen the Doc in his handle and my brain prematurely went, “Oooh, Grey’s Anatomy in real life” before I read the rest of it.
Shit.
I swiped right on Alec Mansfield.
There’s no way he’s a medical doctor though …
Medical doctors save lives and help people, and Alex doesn’t have a obliging bone in his body unless you’re in desperate need of an orgasm and then he’s your man—or so I was told back in the day.
I refuse to believe someone so merciless and cruel grew up to be the kind of person people respect and admire.
I mean, people change all the time … but Alec?!
Sure, he had the smarts for it.
The drive.
The pushy parents.
The abundance of Mansfield money to pay his way through med school.
But with all the hating I’d done on him before and after he moved away, I’d hoped karma would’ve smiled on me and bit him in the ass by now. In my mind, he was bald, sporting an extra fifty pounds, and working on his fourth marriage, living the kind of life no amount of spit could shine into something impressive.
The bartender pushes a fresh pitcher of margaritas over to me. I lay the cash on the bar, all the while contemplating what would be a good response.
Go to hell?
Screw you?
Die, loser?
But alas, I’m a public relations guru by trade and uncouth is not my style. Once the words are written and sent, you can never take them back and screenshots are forever, so I’ve always been extra careful.