Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“I don’t hustle,” I inform him primly. “I strategically withhold information about my card-playing abilities until it’s too late for my hapless opponent.” I grin as I scoop the small pile of coins into my hand. “Now, all your ten pence pieces are mine.”
“Diabolical,” he mutters. “How did you become such a beastly little card shark?”
“I could tell you…” I shrug. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
The truth is, I learned gin rummy from my grandmother during Isabelle’s endless skating practices, back when I was too young to stay home alone and mom and dad were still at work. It was either that or watch Isabelle do the same leapy, turny thing eight hundred times in a row.
But Olly doesn’t need to know that I spent my formative years in ice rink waiting rooms, making the best of being the “less interesting and talented” sister. He also doesn’t need to know that this is the longest I’ve gone without checking my email in months. Or that I eat lunch at my desk every day to squeeze more work in.
Or that, lately, my list-making habit is inching past “cute coping mechanism” into “pathological” territory.
No, all he needs to know is that I’m a wild and fabulous redhead who crashes nativity plays, picks all the best Christmas songs, and can drink him under the table.
At least, I think I can…
I don’t drink that often, but when I do, I’m usually the last girl standing at the bachelorette party. I never lose a shoe on the dance floor or ask the male stripper if I can take a picture of the “junk in his front trunk.” (That last one was Maya, who still has an impressive collection of “front trunk” shots on her phone from our friend Georgia’s bachelorette party in Atlantic City last year.)
Still, by the time we’re on our fourth—fifth?—drink, my lips are starting to tingle and my words slur a little as I say, “Yes, the seagull stealing the toupee was bad, but nothing compared to what happened in Florida. It was a destination wedding at the Everglades Botanical Gardens. We were halfway through the toasts when suddenly the swans turned feral. They just started honking and snapping at people, and one chased the mother-of-the-bride into the lagoon.” I gesture Olly’s way with my pint glass. “Which might not have been so bad, but there were also alligators in the lagoon. Because of the Florida of it all.”
His jaw drops. “Christ. I forget how terrifying America can be.”
“So terrifying,” I agree. “I’m never going to Florida again. A place with killer dinosaurs in the water is not a place where I belong. And the humidity is horrible. My hair was a giant frizzy fuzzball the entire time.” I sip my beer, willing myself to take this one slower than the last.
“So?” he prods after a beat.
I blink. “So what?”
“So did the mother-of-the-bride die a horrible, bloody death by swan and/or alligator?” he demands, giving my thigh a teasing squeeze beneath the table. “You can’t leave a man hanging like that, Red.”
I giggle. “Oh, sorry. No, she didn’t. But she did have to fight off two giant male swans with her high heel before the garden staff were able to fetch her out of the lagoon. Apparently, she’d crashed through their nest while she was running from the other swans, and they were angry that she’d bothered their babies. Even though they’d obviously stolen the babies from some poor mama swan while her back was turned.” I take a quick drink to wet my parched throat before adding, “Did you know that twenty-five percent of male swans are gay?”
Olly throws his head back and laughs, a rich sound that makes dangerous warmth pulse through my veins.
God, he’s sexy. And gorgeous. And has the best laugh.
But I can’t have a one-night stand with a complete stranger.
Can I?
I can invite him back to the hotel lobby for one last drink and get his number and maybe kiss him on the sidewalk before he gets in his cab, but that’s it.
After all, I’ve never had a one-night stand.
Ever.
Not even in college, when one-night-standing was all a girl on scholarship at an Ivy League business school, who was also secretary of her sorority, had time for.
No, I’m not that type of person.
I’m not impulsive, especially not in a sexual way.
But maybe it’s time to start, a wicked voice whispers in my head.
I’m still blushing when Olly squeezes my thigh again and declares, “You’re making that up.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not. One in four male swans are full-blown gay.”
His lips twitch. “As opposed to just a wee bit gay? The way I get when I watch too much Outlander.”
Now, it’s my turn to snort-laugh. He grins wider in response, clearly pleased with himself for getting a snort out of me. And damn, I think I might be falling in lust with his chin dimple. Who knew a chin dimple could be so delicious?