Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Before I can reply, the waiter comes over to take our drink orders. Emma—being her usual frugal, pathologically independent self—asks for plain water, while I get a hibiscus iced tea and so does Marcus.
Just as the waiter leaves, a man approaches our table, and I automatically scan him, starting with his shoes.
He’s wearing Italian loafers. Armani jeans. A light-colored cashmere sweater that he fills out very nicely. I can tell his face will be attractive even before I lift my gaze.
Oh. Fuck.
I know this face.
This is—
“Great call on the place,” the newcomer says to Marcus as he takes a seat next to me. “I’ve been meaning to try it, but you beat me to it.”
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
The last time I saw him, he was—
“Ashton Vancroft,” he says to me with a smile that is as fake as it is wide. “And you are?”
To add insult to injury, he extends his hand to me.
I give him my most withering glare.
“Kendall Bryce,” I grit out.
He keeps his fucking hand out, which makes me want to stab it with the butter knife. But I’m not the kind of person who makes a scene, so with great effort, I ignore the proffered appendage and angle my chair so I don’t have to look at his smug, gorgeous face.
Shit.
Maybe I have made a scene, after all.
Emma is gaping at me.
This is just great. I never told her about my one-night stand with this literal manwhore, so—
“So,” Ash—or Ashton, or whatever the fuck his full name is—drawls. “What’s good here?”
Looking puzzled, Emma’s boyfriend says wryly, “Everything, I assume.” Then he cocks an eyebrow. “Do you two know each other?”
“No.” I flag down our waiter and, when he hurries over, order a pitcher of sangria.
This is what I get for not telling my best friend about the hottest—and most humiliating—one-night stand of my life.
“Are you going to share that?” Ashton—as I’ve decided to call him in an effort not to think about that night—asks, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Or are you planning to drink the whole thing by yourself?”
My fists itch. Would it be considered a scene if I punched his fucking face as my reply?
Emma clears her throat. “So, Ashton, how is your business going? Any luck slowing down that revenue growth?”
Business? Revenue growth? Just how many women has he been “training?” Must be a lot, judging by those nice clothes he’s wearing. He totally looks like he belongs here, with the rich and famous. There’s even a subtle air of commanding arrogance around him, the same kind of power that Marcus Carelli exudes.
Except Marcus is a genuine self-made billionaire, and his friend is a “personal trainer with benefits.” How do the two of them even know each other?
Then again, Carelli wasn’t always a billionaire. In fact, he’s a classic rags-to-riches story, so this could be a friend from his rags days. Except Emma’s boyfriend went into finance, while his friend decided to fuck his way into money.
Damn it. Now I have a mental image of his massive cock poking through a hundred-dollar bill. A weirdly hot, unwelcome image that—
“Afraid not,” the asshole replies with a grimace. “It’s like a snowball rolling down a mountain—just keeps gathering momentum.”
Now I see an image of a snowball covered with dicks. Wait, why multiple dicks? Or any?
As I’m trying to untangle that puzzle, Ashton looks from Emma to Marcus. “How about you two lovebirds? How’s everything? Is the wedding date already set?”
Emma bursts out laughing. “Oh, yes. It’s tomorrow night at Disney World. Six o’clock. Be there or meet Mickey’s wrath.”
She’s referring to a gossip rag article about the two of them with the clickbait headline of “Is One of New York’s Most Eligible Getting Hitched at Disney World?”
Yes, that’s right. My best friend now shows up in gossip rags. Like a freaking celebrity.
Marcus doesn’t look amused. Instead, he eyes Ashton like he’d help me punch his friend in the balls… for starters.
Ashton must feel our joint wrath because he clears his throat and motions to the waiter, who comes over with the same record-setting speed.
“What have you got on tap?” Ashton asks, and the waiter rattles off a list of beer names.
Ashton orders one, and Marcus gets one too—which means that the pitcher of sangria is going to just be for me, after all. Which is fine.
I’m pretty sure I’ll need it.
“So, everyone,” Marcus says. “What are your Christmas plans?”
I do my best to pull myself together and tell them I’ll be seeing my family. My nemesis says he has the same plans, though he doesn’t sound terribly excited. I wonder if it’s because his parents disapprove of his chosen profession.
If so, I don’t blame them.
Picking up on the continuing tension, Marcus steers the conversation back to Emma’s cats and their shenanigans—which, annoyingly, makes me remember Ashton’s dog, Sir Ems. Still, I laugh at the cat stories, if only halfheartedly, and avoid looking at Ashton because that way lies causing a worse scene.