Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 108846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
I may not know much, but I am an expert in two things:
Heartbreak.
And hedonism.
I've been chasing escape from one bed to the next, finding distraction in all the wrong places.
Like with my roommate's sister.
And my billionaire boss's lover.
You could say I'm lucky in lust but very unlucky in the other L-word.
By the time I arrive in Mermaid Beach, Florida, I've decided I'm done with flings. I'm over chasing women I can't have.
Until I meet Sloane Parker, the woman who has made it her mission to ruin the new Wolf Hotel.
A hotel I'm supposed to help manage, by the way. Yeah. Me, Ronan Lyle, Director of Facilities.
Don't you dare laugh.
I don't need another forbidden woman in my life, especially one who could derail my future.
But what I want? That's a totally different story.
Please note: This series is intended for a mature audience
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1. Ronan
“What’d I tell you?” My new roommate, Connor, stretches his beefy arms out to either side, grinning at the crowded boardwalk. There must be thousands of people. Tens of thousands, even. Everyone says nights in Miami are crazy. The street festival only ups the mayhem.
His bright blue gaze rakes over three girls who stroll past, their matching black shorts like second skins hugging their perfectly round ass cheeks. They smile, they wink, their made-up eyes flash from Connor to me—to my sleeve of ink, to my face where they linger, not even pretending to play coy.
“All right. Time to move,” Connor announces.
“Give me a sec to finish this.” I puff on my Marlboro while appreciating the balmy evening temperature and soaring palm trees. It was forty degrees Fahrenheit when I left home this morning.
He frowns. “I need a solid wingman, so ease up on the chain-smoking. That may have worked for you in Indianapolis, but chicks don’t dig it down here.”
“Don’t worry about chicks digging me.” The problem is that I’m having a hard time being interested in any of them. I’d rather just lean against this stucco wall and smoke my brains out than go to the effort of searching for a girl, striking up a tedious conversation, and pretending I care what she has to say, all while waiting for her to inhale enough drinks to embolden her hands.
Why can’t they make cigarettes to replace a good fuck? I mean, sure, a smoke is a nice way to cap it off when you’ve blown your load and you’re sprawled on your back, sweaty and panting. But when you’re alone—because your girlfriend of four years decided you needed “time apart” and is riding someone else’s dick already—and you’re not in the mood for the energy it takes to pick up, it sure would be nice to pull a smoke out of your pocket and get your release that way.
It would be effortless.
Peaceful.
Uncomplicated.
I can’t say any of this to Connor, though. I only met him two hours ago, fresh off the plane. He gave me just enough time to drop my luggage in my new bedroom and take a piss, and then he announced we were going out to “pop my Miami cherry.” I can’t help but feel like this is some sort of vetting process, a test to see if he and I can be friends. And I can tell he’s the type to tell everyone I’m a pussy if I don’t go along with it.
I snuff out my cigarette. “Lead the way, Casanova.”
“Better luck tomorrow night.” I light up a smoke the moment my sneakers touch the sidewalk.
“I fucking hope so,” Connor grumbles, slamming the taxi door and earning a curse from the driver. “I was so sure I had that redhead.”
“And I was so sure you were gonna get your skull crushed in by her boyfriend.” An angry beast who could pass for a professional wrestler, bulging arms, veiny trunk of a neck and all. Not that Connor isn’t equally threatening. He looks like a juiced-up Ken doll.
“You weren’t exactly a big help.” He punches my shoulder playfully.
“Sorry, man. I haven’t slept much. The guys at work had a little going-away party for me last night.” At Racey’s, a low-class downtown strip club, where the drinks are overpriced and the girls are extra sleazy.
We stumble past a guy taking a piss against a wall, the stench of booze and fresh urine assaulting my nostrils.
“Don’t worry. It’s a good area. Mostly a young crowd.” Connor waves it off and climbs the steps to the front door of our condo building. It’s not high-end, but it’s definitely not the slums. There are six identical structures in a row—all white stucco with red tile roofs, clean pathways lined by shrubs that get bare-bones landscaping attention. Lots of palm trees. The best part, though, is that we’re a five-minute drive to the beach and our jobs at the Wolf Miami Hotel. That was a selling point for me when I was searching for a place to live, seeing as I have no plans to buy a car.
“So, what do you think about Miami so far?” Connor keys in the passcode to get into the main entrance.
“Helluva lot warmer than back home.” It was gray and miserable when I kissed my mom’s worried cheek goodbye and walked out the front door, nothing but a duffel bag slung over my shoulder.
“Enjoy it now. You’ll be sweating your balls off come summer. Still, it’s worth it. I’ve been here for six years. Can’t get enough of the ocean and the nights.” He leads my travel-weary body toward the elevator. “And our team at Wolf is kick-ass. Good bunch.”
“Great, because I left a good team back home.” For two years, I’ve worked in outdoor maintenance at the Wolf in Indianapolis, doing landscaping and other grounds work for the luxury hotel chain. Not a glamorous job, but it’s stress-free, pays decent, and there are certain perks, like discounts to book rooms at any of the Wolf locations around the world. Not that I could afford to.