Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
My gaze strayed to the scissors on my desk, and I wondered how far through the divider I could ram them. The blades were a mere four inches long, so not far enough. My attention went to the Magic Eight Ball shaped like a bare ass. Maybe if I launched it over the divider, I could knock him out.
Angry footsteps padded over the carpet before Margot and her windblown mane of red hair rounded the corner of my cubicle. “Fuck your sister! And fuck Jimbo!” She chucked her oversized purse onto my workspace, then rummaged through it. “The nerve of her sending you a stupid invitation to her stupid engagement to that stupid-ass man. I hope you’re in Paris getting railed by some Frenchman while she’s opening bags of dog shit.” She pulled a crumpled bag from her purse. “Because that’s what I’m sending to her party—a bag of dog shit.” She thrust the item toward me. But after what she’d just said, I didn’t reach for it.
“Margot, if that’s dog shit, I don’t want it.”
“It’s not. It’s your bon voyage present.”
I took it and peeked inside at a collection of lace thongs. “Margot…” I cocked an inquisitive brow, my gaze lifting to her face. “Why are you buying me lingerie?”
“To help. French men expect sexy underwear.”
I opened my mouth to remind her that the “French” guy she’d picked up at Tiki Ted’s last year was just a guy from Idaho faking a French accent, but she held up her hand to silence me. “And before you even try to argue, full-assed, sensible, white cotton is not sexy underwear.”
“No. It’s practical.” Especially when your skirt gets ripped off in Grand Central Station.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned her butt against my desk. “Practical doesn’t get you fucked against a wall by a man named Pierre while he whispers tittie tittie croissant in your ear.”
I opened a drawer and crammed the bag of panties inside before closing it. “I’m not making plans to shack up with any French men on my trip, but if a man whispered tittie tittie croissant in my ear, I would definitely not fuck him.” Just like if a man whispered, I heard you were easy.
A loud bang came from the other side of the cubicle. Vance’s way of telling us to be quiet.
Margot frowned, then leaned over my desk and banged right back. “To you, too!” Her attention drifted back to me. “What do you mean you wouldn’t fuck a guy who whispered sweet nu-teengs in urr ear? You only live once, Blake. Wear the thongs. Fuck a French man before it’s too late.”
“Before it’s too late? You act like I have one foot in the grave.”
“One could only wish,” Vance’s voice came from behind the divider. Eavesdropping bastard!
I snatched the paper clip container from my desk, took off the lid, and chucked it over to his side. The tinker of a hundred mini clips raining down on his workspace was like music to my ears. The guy had such a stick up his butt that there was no way a little bit of office supply chaos wouldn’t send him into a tailspin. And just for good measure… I took the hole punch from my drawer, opened it, and emptied copy-paper confetti over the wall.
“I seriously hate you.” From the slight grunt in his voice, it sounded like he was already on the floor cleaning up the mess.
“And my antipathy for you is unmatched,” I said with a smile.
Margot grabbed the top of the divider, pushed onto her tiptoes, and peeked over. “Oh, he’s gone. How much do you want to bet he’s going to get the vacuum?”
Heaven forbid, bits of paper lay sprinkled over his tidy floor space.
Margot sighed. “He had such promise when he first started. All muscley and uptight—it’s always the tense ones that end up making you call them Daddy.”
“Margot…”
“Seriously, Blake. Think about his deep voice telling you to call him Daddy right before he railed you.”
The problem was, I had. More times than I wanted to admit.
It wasn’t enough that I’d silenced my phone. The screen had stayed lit up all morning thanks to the family chat. Thirty minutes after I’d turned off notifications from the group, my mother had texted.
Think of how your sister will feel.
Just like how Kate was so worried about how I’d feel while she was riding my boyfriend’s dick?
Blake Leigh Brentley!
That name should have been hint number one that I was her least-favorite child.
Blake Leigh Brentley? It rhymed. Like Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.
It was the least offensive of the fifteen reasons I’d moved in with my dad when my parents had divorced. The most offensive was my mother’s magnet board. The board she used to rank my three siblings and me from one to four based on how much she liked us at any given moment.