Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
For the most part, it was an old man’s day bar. But it was the perfect place to come hang out after work—no young guys to assume a woman sitting alone at the bar was looking to get laid. It was a good thing I was a workaholic, or I could’ve easily spent all my time in this place and become a different type of -holic instead.
Quinn pulled two shot glasses from the rack and reached down below the bar for a bottle of something. Seeing no label, I knew what she was trying to feed me.
I covered the tiny glass with my hand. “No way. I had a headache for a week after drinking that stuff.”
“It’s a new batch.”
“You made it?”
Quinn smiled proudly. “Sure did.”
“Then no thanks.”
After watching one too many episodes of Moonshiners, Quinn had decided she could make her own liquor. She could—only it was undrinkable and tasted like nail polish.
Quinn pouted and poured herself one before reaching for the private stash of my wine that she kept behind the bar. “Busy day at the office, honey? Wait, let’s start with the good stuff. Have you ended your drought and slept with the new guy you’re dating yet? What was his name again?”
I traced the rim of my wine glass with my finger. “Oliver. And, no. But we have a date tonight. He’s meeting me here in an hour.”
She arched a brow. “You don’t sound too excited about that.”
Quinn knew me. We’d been inseparable since February 2nd of fourth grade. That was the day I’d been sent down to the principal’s office to bring the new girl to class. She’d had on mismatched socks and carried a bullfrog in her cracked lunchbox—her peanut butter and jelly had been squished at the bottom of her backpack in a brown paper bag.
I sighed. “I am. Maybe not as excited as I should be, but I do enjoy spending time with Oliver.”
Quinn put her elbows on the bar and rested her head atop her hands. “Spit it out. What’s going on? You were all excited about the first date you had with this guy a month ago. Wait…let me guess. Halitosis? Talks about his mother all the time? Stuffed animals in the back window of his car?”
I laughed. “Nothing like that. It’s just…well…I sort of took on a new client.”
Quinn’s eyes lit up. She’d married her high school sweetheart at nineteen, so she lived vicariously through me—not that she’d gotten to hear anything exciting over the last year.
“The client’s a he, I assume?”
I nodded.
“Well, keep going. What does he look like?”
“He’s tall, has the most stunning green eyes—the kind of color that keeps you warm in the winter while you trudge through snow because it reminds you that spring grass will grow again soon.”
Quinn’s brows drew down and her smile grew quizzical. “That’s an awfully elaborate description. Go on.”
“Bone structure like a Greek god, lean and muscular body, droolworthy forearms, and he totally reeks of confidence.”
Quinn let out a dreamy sigh and closed her eyes. “Veiny forearms?”
“Some. Enough to tell you he works out a lot, but not so much that it looks like putting in an IV would cause a geyser to spout.”
She opened her eyes. “I have this theory. People say big feet means big dick. But I think it’s all about the forearms. They’re basically a visual substitute—thick and veiny forearms, oh God. Skinny forearms, is it over yet?
I laughed. “I’ll have to take one for the team and test that theory.”
Quinn’s face was suddenly crestfallen. “He’s married? Is that the problem?”
“Actually, turns out he’s not.”
“So why are you meeting Oliver here and not the new guy? What’s his name?”
I looked her straight in the eyes. “Grayson.”
Her forehead scrunched. “Grayson? Like the asshole?”
I nodded my head slowly and waited, knowing she’d figure it out.
Her eyes grew to saucers. “Your new client is Gray? Prison guy?”
I tipped my wine glass toward her before taking a healthy gulp. “One and the same.”
For the next hour, I caught my friend up on the last ten days, since Gray had waltzed back into my life. There was a lot to tell—the presentation, dinner, flowers, our trip—his marriage. Luckily she already knew the rest of our history, which also meant she knew how devastated I’d been when I’d discovered he was married and ended things. So I didn’t have to explain what my heart felt like now, how conflicted I’d been.
“So what happened after you arrived home from your trip?”
“Nothing.” My shoulders slumped. “I haven’t heard from him.”
Gray had kept to his word about giving me space. In the eight days since we’d been back, I hadn’t heard a peep from him, other than a short email exchange after I’d sent over the draft of the partnership agreement I’d written.
And I hated that a part of me missed him.