Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 55171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
I pull the door open and take a step inside, the door closing behind me, secluding me in the dark bar. Cedar planks the walls and ceiling. Beer and alcohol neon signs litter the walls along with posters that look to be decades old. My eyes take in the patrons lingering at the bar and the high-top tables. A waitress is wiping down the bar in my peripheral vision. She gives me a slight nod. I do an awkward finger wave. Great. More embarrassment floods my body once again, adding fuel to the fire. My mind tries to pull up the memory of my time with Griff after he whisked me away from a nightmare. I asked for his phone, made the call to my mom. Between her and my aunt, they helped put out the fires. Meanwhile, Griffin had me loaded up, seatbelt secured, plopping the bottles of tequila in my lap I pilfered on our way, and we were driving. It’s not like I stole them; they were technically from my wedding, which both parties helped pay for, myself included, because while Mom did as much as she could, there was no way we could keep up with the Joneses and the way Zach’s mom liked to throw money out the window on frivolous bullshit.
My gaze doesn’t land on the man I came here for. Maybe coming here was stupid. Maybe I should leave well enough alone. Or maybe I should pull up my big girl panties. My voice of reason comes in loud and clear, which means I’m going to listen and make my way to the bar. At least to ask the bartender where Griff is. If she says he’s not here, then I can move on, write a thank-you card, and mail it to the bar I’m currently inside, aptly named High Tide Tavern.
I’m slightly underdressed compared to a few of the patrons. Most are in jeans, nice shirts, and boots. The tank top and cut-off jean shorts with a pair of flip-flops really don’t mesh well with a bar. Open-toed shoes, beer bottles, and the possibility of a bar fight—my feet would be toast. Hopefully that doesn’t happen, and I can come out unscathed. Plus, it’s not like I’m here during last call. It’s the early afternoon and in the middle of the week.
“Hi, welcome to High Tide Tavern. What can I get you?” the bartender asks after I finally shuffle my feet to the bar, where no one is sitting. She looks at me quizzically, as if I don’t belong, a fact I’m very well aware of.
“Hi, actually, I was looking for Griff.” Her eyebrows quirk up toward her hairline. She’s got a slight smirk on her face as if she doesn’t believe me.
“And you are?” Alright, then, maybe Griffin has women coming to his establishment asking for him all the time. Okay, fine, I can’t technically blame them either. Griffin Hawkins is a lot of things. Ugly is not one of them. He’s tall, dark, and devastatingly beautiful in a way most men would cringe at the term. Something tells me he wouldn’t. Griff exudes confidence, a talent I wish I had. Maybe I wouldn’t be standing here stone-cold silent trying to choose my words carefully.
“A friend, actually. Never mind, I’ll see him when I see him.” I shrug my shoulders. There’s no way the bartender is going to tell me where Griff is or if he’s even here. I’ll cut my losses, send a thank-you card like the loser I am, and move on from another embarrassing moment in the life of Stormy Stevens. There’s no reason to wait for a response. I abruptly close the conversation down. The bartender doesn’t say anything else either and goes back to cleaning the countertops. That’s when I turn around. There’s no use sticking around, so I do what any other woman would do: I turn away, hold my shoulders back, and pretend to exude a confidence that’s slowly crumbling. At least from the back it looks like I’ve got my shit together. From the front, well, that’s a whole other story. My eyes are downcast, the dark circles rimming my eyes seem to be permanent these days, and my appetite is virtually non-existent. It’s been a domino effect: lack of sleep, lack of eating, lack of freaking energy. We’ll just tack it on to everything else. Today, I’m going to hop in my car, roll the windows down, jack the air conditioner to the lowest setting, and find a good song to scream-sing to. I’m so lost in my own thoughts, trying to bolt toward the door without seeming like a basket case, I run smack dab into a hard body.
“If the world could just dig a hole and swallow me whole, that would be awesome right about now,” I grumble into the black-fabric-covered chest, hands holding my biceps. The owner’s scent wafts around us—orange, cedar, and oak.