Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Because the truth is . . . nearly every woman in Puss N Boots, except for Avery and Wren, wants him. And the harder truth is, I’m included. But I’m smart enough to hide it and not throw myself at him.
Nothing but trouble messing with a Ford.
“You know, Hazel, you’ve been pretty quiet,” Wyatt says at one point, raising his glass of what looks like ginger ale toward me. “Don’t tell me you don’t have anything to add to the conversation?”
I lick my lips, tasting the sour lime and alcohol there, and enjoy the way Wyatt’s eyes zero in on the movement. “I have plenty to say, but Avery made me promise to play nice tonight.”
“You know how to behave?” Winston asks me disbelievingly.
“There’s a time to behave,” Wyatt tells his brother before zeroing back in on me, “and a time to misbehave.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, and Wyatt raises an eyebrow. “Oh, me jumping on Roddy’s back? That was nothing.”
“I bet Roddy would beg to differ,” Wyatt argues. “In fact, I bet once sober, he was kicking himself for not enjoying the moment more fully.”
“Enjoying me attacking him?” I ask, confused.
Wyatt’s eyes brighten, and I realize I’ve stepped directly into a trap. I’m usually better than this, used to all sorts of setups for cheesy come-ons from customers. But that’s not what Wyatt offers . . .
“Attacking him? With your knees locked around his waist, your chest pressed to him, and your breath on his neck while you screamed?”
He makes my banshee-yelling piggyback ride on Roddy’s back sound like something completely different.
It’s like that for hours. On and off, he and I spar verbally. Sometimes he’s tossing me some pretty blatant comments, other times he’s almost subtle with his come-ons. Meanwhile, I’ve found that trying to irritate Wyatt Ford is fun. He doesn’t show it easily; in fact, the best way I can tell that I’ve gotten one in on him is when he literally doesn’t change his reaction one bit from my last comment. That straight face, hiding his emotions, is more revealing than any of the flirty smiles, deep laughs, or long looks.
But with each round of stories or comments or jokes, I find myself more and more distracted. He’s not perfect, like some movie producer’s wet dream of a hero. No, he’s too cocky, too zero fucks given, for that. But that means the good things I see are all the more real. Like his affection for his brother and sister. Whatever there is between them, and I think those three have more layers than an onion going on there, he’s got a big heart for them both.
“Are we going to see this pool face-off?” Rachel asks eventually. “Because I’m ready to see you play with your balls, Wyatt!”
“I’m going to need therapy for that one,” Wren says, wincing.
I look over at Wyatt, and the sudden image of him bent over the table, his tight bubble butt filling out his jeans, his big biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt as he strokes his cue has me dry mouthed, and I have to swallow the rest of the margarita in my glass. “Yeah . . . let’s do this.”
“Let’s not,” Wyatt says, and I gape at him in surprise.
“You’re chickening out on me?” I ask, and Wyatt shakes his head. “Sounds like it to me. Bawk! Bawk! Bawk!” My impression sounds a bit like Lester mimicking a chicken, but it gets the point across.
“When we play, Hazel, we’re going to do it when we’re on equal level,” Wyatt says. “You’re getting tipsy. I won’t take advantage.”
“I could beat you falling down drunk!” I protest, and Wyatt laughs.
Getting up, he comes over to my seat, one hand on the back and one on the table to whisper in my ear, “When we play again, I want you sober so that you know without a doubt that I’m the one man good enough to handle you.” I look up at him, searching his face for the lie, but he smiles easily. “Or maybe I need a little liquid courage before I try again.”
It’s sexy, so sexy I can feel a sudden flash of heat between my thighs. Confidence, praise, and some self-deprecating humor all in two sentences? It’s a headier mix than the drinks that are not making me tipsy in the slightest.
“If you want to play, Rachel, go ahead and grab a table. I’m sure Wren will play. I think I’ll get some mushy love songs playing on that jukebox over there. Set the mood for this party.” Wyatt saunters off, going over to the big Seeburg that Etta bought almost at the same time she opened Puss N Boots.
Rachel and Wren look at each other, shrugging and not making a move to claim a table.