Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
A silver-haired couple dressed to the nines broke into an impromptu waltz, and when the man stepped back to twirl his partner, their friends looked on and laughed indulgently. Over by the wall, barely visible behind an elephant ear plant, another couple was locked together in a passionate embrace, one woman’s fingers alternately clutching and caressing the other’s back. All around, people were joining hands, linking elbows, cuddling close to their person, riding the true-love contact high.
I sighed.
I hadn’t been kidding when I told Oscar about the way some people got at weddings—all juiced up on romance and hope—but I might have failed to mention that I was one of those people. The only difference was, when I was love-drunk, I didn’t get the urge to sex up random strangers. I started building fairy-tale castles out of thin air and seeing possibilities where none existed. And when the high faded, the hangover felt a lot like… well, like loneliness.
The feeling never lasted for long, fortunately. I liked my life. I loved my job. After a good night’s sleep, I’d wake up tomorrow feeling refreshed. I’d go through the first of the pictures from today and soak in the grooms’ happy smiles. I’d take a walk through Central Park and find some content for my TikTok account. I’d let Rafa’s sister set me up with their cousin’s dog sitter’s best friend and find I’d matched with someone new on Tinder, and probably—in fact, definitely—one of those guys would be the guy, my guy, my happily ever after, and everything would fall into place. But for tonight…
I hefted my camera bag strap higher on my shoulder and bit my lip as I looked toward the bar again.
Tonight, I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to be alone. And maybe Rafa was right—maybe what I needed was a Mr. Right Now. A hookup. A distraction. Someone to help soothe the itchy restlessness in my gut that said there was something out there I was missing, something I was supposed to be doing, some path I’d been meant to take and had somehow stumbled past without noticing.
One drink, I decided. That didn’t necessarily mean I was committing to picking anyone up, but there was no harm in checking out the options. Extending the night a little longer so I didn’t have to face an empty apartment.
I veered toward the bar and slid onto a stool near a group of good-looking guys, tucking my equipment bag under my feet. The bartender, who was busy prepping a round of drinks for someone else, tossed me a wink to let me know he’d noticed me. And while I waited for him to take my order, I got out my camera because in my experience, there was no better conversation starter. It was a fact of life that hot guys loved having their picture taken.
But the moment my camera powered on, a gallery of images appeared on the viewfinder. Just that quickly, I forgot my whole hookup plan because I was too busy scrolling through my photos of the evening until I found the particular shot I’d been looking for: a photo of a man cuddling a hedgehog.
God, but Oscar was gorgeous. His individual features were devastating enough—sculpted cheekbones, pouty mouth, sharp jaw subtly kissed by stubble, just-fucked hair that practically compelled you to imagine running your fingers through it, and eyes the exact shade of a summer sky when the sun was high and the air was buzzing with cicadas. But when you put it all together, the package was somehow even more compelling. There was so much depth to those eyes. Depth that spoke of vulnerability and—
Fuck. You’re doing it again, Hugh Linzee. Pretending you’ve found a connection with a guy you’ll never speak to again. How pathetic can you—?
“Handsome devil, isn’t he?” a low, husky voice said in my ear.
I spun on my stool and gaped at the man leaning against the bar beside me. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, giving a tantalizing hint of smooth skin underneath, and his tie hung loose around his neck. “O-oscar?” I stammered because I was observant like that.
“I was referring to Frank, of course.” He nodded at the camera in my hands. “Your rude, unauthorized photographs are a blight on society, but you managed to catch his good side.”
My heart hammered at his proximity. “Frank doesn’t have a bad side,” I said, my voice way too breathy. I cleared my throat. “And they’re called candids, which is part of my job.” I wet my suddenly dry lips. “I… I thought you’d left.”
Oscar’s lips twitched up in a sketch of a smile. “Not exactly. I took Frank up to my room, but then Roman asked me to come back down for a minute so we could talk.” He made some sort of complicated motion at the bartender, and then he glanced at me. “He and I dated a while back. Now he’s planning his marriage proposal.”