Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
He chokes on his response. “God, no. Not even close.”
I study his face, searching for a sign that he’s lying, but there isn’t a drop of sweat on his forehead, and he isn’t blinking or licking his lips or avoiding eye contact or looking suspiciously to the left.
“Then what’s your deal?” I ask.
“I don’t have a deal,” he says. “There’s just nothing I hate more than weddings and wasted time.”
“Okay, so then you do have a deal: you hate weddings and wasted time.”
“Guess so.”
“It’s just . . . you don’t hate nuclear bombs or animal testing or career politicians? You hate . . . weddings? That’s what you hate the most? Out of everything?”
“It’s not that deep.” Dorian swallows a mouthful of whiskey, appearing lost in thought for a second. I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about something—or perhaps someone. Maybe he’s not so much loathing the fact that he’s here as he is loathing the fact that a certain someone else isn’t here with him.
“Do you have a girlfriend back home?” I ask before quickly tacking on, “or boyfriend? Partner? Person?”
“Nope. No girlfriend.”
“Have you ever been engaged?” I ask.
“Never.” He doesn’t hesitate. “What’s that have to do with anything?”
“Have you ever been in love?” I ignore his question, asking another as I try to piece together a picture of why this guy hates weddings more than world hunger.
“Ish,” he says, face wincing.
“Ish?” I arch a brow. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve been in relationships that felt a lot like love,” he says. “I was in love . . . ish.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. He can’t be much older than thirty if he went to college at the same time as Benson. That’s a long time to live without experiencing love.
“Don’t be.”
“Who ended it, you or her?” I ask.
“She did.”
“Recently?”
“Time is relative.” He presses his thumb against his tumbler, leaving a fingerprint-shaped smudge on the pristine glass. “What about you? What’s your story? Ever been engaged or any of that bullshit?”
I shake my head. “Not the marrying type.”
His eyes light up as if I’m finally speaking his language.
While I have nothing personal against marriage or those who choose to get married, I find it a slightly antiquated concept—one that holds zero appeal for me.
Doesn’t stop me from celebrating others, though.
“If I want to be with someone, I will. I don’t need to legally bind myself to them or take their last name to prove my love or commitment,” I say.
He lifts his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“I hope I don’t sound like a pick-me girl,” I say.
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s when a woman acts like she’s not like other women. She wants to seem different. Special.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” he asks. “Who’d want to be with someone who was like everyone else?”
“Pick-me girls advertise that they’re not like everyone else, but deep down they are—they just act like they’re not because they think it makes them more attractive to men.”
The song changes to the new Katy Perry number, and a dance circle has formed around the still-grinding couple who are now full-on making out like it’s their junior prom and someone passed around a flask of vodka in the limo before they all got out for pictures.
I’m shocked the DJ hasn’t played a Phantom Symphony song yet, though the majority of their music is better suited for stormy Sundays, self-reflection, rainy walks in Central Park, and wistful daydreams of relationships past.
The next time I catch the bartender’s eye, I order two ice waters and slide one of them to Dorian. Tomorrow’s supposed to be a day at the resort’s private beach, but I have a feeling half of these people are going to be too hungover to enjoy it.
“You’re giving me a hard time about not having fun and now you’re ordering water?” he asks with a huff.
“It’s called pacing myself. Tomorrow’s beach day, and I love beaches more than anything in the world. I’ll be damned if I miss it.” Pointing to his water, I say, “Drink up.”
“Who said I was going to the beach?”
“You’re just going to sit in your room, feeling sorry for yourself? Thinking about the girl who broke your heart in the relatively near or distant past?”
He fights a smirk and rolls his eyes. “Do you always say the first thing that comes to your mind?”
“Pretty much.”
“How does that usually go for you? Not having a filter?”
“Most people are more open than you think.” I sip my icy water. “Sometimes all you have to do is ask the right question or say something that catches them off guard, and they open up like a flower.” I tighten my hand into a fist before unfurling my fingers to illustrate my point. “I mean, look at the dialogue we’re having right now. This isn’t exactly small talk.”