Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“What’s that look for?” Portia suddenly asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“What look?”
She pulls a face. “This one. What were you just thinking about when you were ignoring us completely?”
I decide to be honest. “That guy. How cringey I was by the elevators. I mean, I was so weird.”
He had looked so sick, I actually feel bad for saying anything in the first place. Then I went and reminded him that he owed me when he clearly needed to be near a toilet?
It was so obvious he was going to puke.
Pale.
Sweaty.
I caught sight of him with a hand on his stomach as the elevator doors slid closed, at the same time I gave him what I thought was a flirty little wave and a wink.
God, I’m so awkward.
Why?
Why had I waved and winked?
What an insensitive asshole.
Danny nods. “You were probably being weird.”
I scowl at him. “Hey. You’re not supposed to agree; you’re supposed to lie and tell me I wasn’t being weird. It’s the polite, supportive thing to do.”
He laughs. “Okay, but you have to admit, you’re a little weird.”
His cat jumps from the arm of the couch he had been perched on, landing on the floor with a swish of his angry feline tail. Ru has had enough of our nonsense.
“We’re all weird.” I sound defensive, even though I know he’s teasing.
“Tell us again what he looked like—and be specific, you’re doing a terrible job handing out details.”
“I told you he’s good looking. What other details do you want?”
“Height. Hair color. Descriptive features.” He snorts. “Like, how good looking, sliding scale of one to ten, one being ‘coyote ugly,’ ten being ‘he could turn a straight man gay.’”
“Jesus, that’s the scale?” Ava laughs. “That escalated quickly.”
I’m not going to rank a man—I wouldn’t want him ranking me—but I do say, “He was cute. You know, the kind of guy that works out a lot, maybe spends too much time in the gym.”
Everyone groans.
“Gym rat?”
“Maybe?” Or maybe he likes to be fit and prioritize his health? Although with a body like he has, it’s likely he is indeed a gym rat.
“What else?” Portia has herself propped up against her headboard and is half watching our conversation, half watching the television she has mounted to her bedroom wall.
“He was wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt.”
Everyone pauses to stare at their camera.
“Say again?” Ava looks as if she didn’t hear me the first time, but I know that’s not the case and therefore don’t repeat myself.
“What? What do I care if he’s down for the mouse?”
“Um, hello.” Danny flips his hair. “What if he’s a Disney gay, and you’re panting after him? Honey, how good is your gaydar?”
“Are you telling me you think he’s gay because he was wearing a Mickey shirt?”
My friend nods enthusiastically. “I’m saying it’s probable.”
“Danny, leave her alone.” Ava is almost done with her glass of wine and seems to be glancing around to find the bottle. “Don’t listen to him, Harlow. You know he’s only bitter because his ex loved Orlando, and it brings up too many bad memories.”
“We said we weren’t ever going to mention him!” Danny squawks, affronted. “We said we weren’t going to bring him up or mention his name ever again!”
Dennis is the traitorous ex, by the way, not that it has any bearing to this story.
“He was not giving me gay vibes,” I admit. “But who knows.”
Portia pushes on. “And?”
“I think he had brown hair?”
I have Danny’s full attention again. “What does that mean, you think he has brown hair?”
“He was wearing a ball cap.”
“And no hair was peeking out?”
I shake my head. Negative, no hair peeking out.
“Bald,” Danny declares. “Bald!”
“You are not the authority on men just because you are gay,” Portia admonishes him. “Stop scaring her.”
Scaring me?
“What?” Danny practically shouts. “Clearly the man is hatfishing.”
“Hatfishing?” I blurt out. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Men wear hats when they don’t want you to know they have no hair. If he never takes if off, just assume he ain’t got nothing underneath it.”
I laugh because they all sound serious. “Bald men do not scare me.”
“Okay, but how was his actual face?”
These questions are getting to be too much. “I said he was good looking.”
“But what do you consider good looking? Name some celebrities.”
“I . . .” I swallow, feeling pathetic. I don’t watch enough television or see enough movies to give them a single name they can relate to. “He had a strong jawline, five-o’clock shadow, and brown eyes.”
I think.
“Hmm. Okay, I can live with brown eyes.” Danny is trying to call the cat and get him back onto the couch to snuggle, patting the spot next to him at the same time as giving me the third degree. “What about his eyebrows?”
“What about his eyebrows?”
He waves his hand around in the air. “You know—did he have them? Were they bushy? Thin?”