Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“You mean he’s rich, unlike me?” I grinned, pleased. “Well, that explains why you’re only semibroken up and not completely finished.”
“He’s doing well for himself, yes. There’s no shame in that.”
“You still think he’ll have a change of heart and you’ll get to be Mrs. Moneybags.”
She gave me a blank stare. “Believe it or not, I love him.”
The only thing that helped me calm down from my fit of laughter was the knowledge she was extremely tempted to toss hot tea in my face. To my surprise, she handed me two Tylenols.
“For your head tomorrow,” she mumbled.
“I’m not that drunk,” I pointed out.
“God, I was hoping you were. The things that come out of your mouth are outrageous.”
I accepted the tea and acetaminophen gratefully.
“At any rate, I should let you know up front.” Duffy tipped her chin up. “Once he comes back and realizes the error of his ways, this arrangement is over.”
I covered my mouth with my fist to stifle another laugh. This woman was marrying a whole-ass stranger, and she was talking to me about being in love with her ex-boyfriend. I wondered at what point in recent history logic had filed a restraining order against her.
“I understand.” I nodded solemnly. “Thanks for clarifying.”
“Look, I gathered you’re quite the lothario.” She took a sip of her tea. “Props to you, I’m not one to judge. But BJ and I—”
“Hold the press.” I held up a hand. “His name is BJ?”
“Brendan Jr.”
“Please tell me everyone calls him Cocksucker.”
“Riggs!” She stood up, wanting to be horrified by my words, but—I noticed—biting down on a smile. She liked that I was making fun of him. Why shouldn’t she? Asshole probably fucked up her plans of marriage, babies, and all the other boring stuff and made a run for it.
“So, I guess you met in college? How long ago was that?” It would be nice to know my future wife’s age. “Three, four years?”
“Almost eight years,” she corrected. “I’m twenty-six; he is twenty-seven.”
Riggs Jr. sighed in relief in my Dickies. She was young, but not so young that it was terrible for me to beat one off to her mental image. Touching her, however, was firmly out of the question.
“Wait, you were with Cocksucker for seven years and you didn’t even live together?” I spluttered my milk tea. More because it was terrible than because of shock.
“First of all, stop calling him that. Second, his family is quite conservative.”
“Were you two having sex?”
“How is that any of your business?” She was tiny and furious, like Tinker Bell. Just like with Tinker Bell, I’d have loved to smack her ass and watch her fairy dust fall.
“So you did. Nice setup, Cocksucker. Guess he’s happy to please his family by delegitimizing your relationship and keeping you out of his apartment, just as long as he doesn’t need to keep his dick in his pants.”
“This conversation is over,” she declared. “I’m going to fetch your linen and a towel in case you’d like to shower. Which, by the way, is advisable. You smell like a subway urinal.”
I laughed so hard I thought I was going to explode, then tripped over the couch while sitting down.
This was going to be fun.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DUFFY
The day after Riggs and I had booked our wedding was remarkably dreadful, even by my poor standards. The only ray of sunshine was that my neighbor Charlie was kind enough to leave me my favorite Starbucks order and a pastry at my door in the morning, accompanied by a scribbled-on napkin.
Saw a strange man entering your apartment yesterday. Just making sure you’re good, Angel.
I wasn’t good. I was the opposite of good. I couldn’t wait for the next time he and I went down the pub so I could unload. Charlie was a fab listener.
At work, Gretchen was an absolute nightmare, moaning and whining about everything under the sun (including, ironically, the sun itself; apparently, she’d been worried about dark spots ever since she’d started her retinol treatment).
I wondered if she was privy to my arrangement with Riggs. Not that breaking the news to her was high on my to-do list. I had bigger fish to fry. Like telling Mum, Tim, and Kieran I was tying the knot. And possibly slipping my neck into a noose in the process.
Don’t forget about BJ. Though, bitterly, there was no denying he’d forgotten about me.
Speaking of my traitorous ex-boyfriend, he called earlier today to ask if I could give him a lift to the airport. For a reason he refused to share, he had deplorable ratings on both Uber and Lyft.
“I refuse to be defined by cold ratings on a stupid app,” he had once told me when we discussed his aversion for the app. “I know my worth.” That worth, apparently, was less than a hundred bucks, which was the fare most cab companies asked for a trip to JFK, and BJ refused to pay.