Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Imani grins. “That dress is smoking.”
“You think?”
“You know it is. You’re going to be beating them off with sticks.”
She’s sweet as cherry pie for trying to boost my confidence. The truth is, men do approach me, but never those I’m interested in. I have champagne taste and a beer budget. Good-looking, athletic men like good-looking, athletic women. It’s just how it is, and why I’m still carrying around my V-card.
The bar comes into view just as I think I’ll have to throw in the towel and throw out my shoes. The high heels bite into my feet like starved piranhas.
On the door, a bouncer gives us a slow once over. “You got ID?”
“Sure.” Imani pulls her fake ID from her bag while I rummage for mine. They’re good ones, and we haven’t had a problem using them before.
The bouncer gives us another slow look, his eyes lingering on my cleavage. I squeeze my upper arms closer to my body, nudging my boobs together as I plaster on a confident smile. I learned from an early age that men can become easily mesmerized by breasts, and it’s possible to use them to my advantage. There has to be some pros to being busty because the expense of buying big bras and the weight of hefting them around are two major cons.
“Enjoy your evening,” he says with a slight shake of his head, blinking away the temporary tit-fog.
“We will. Thank you,” Imani gushes. She needs to work on being less obviously grateful and more nonchalant.
I follow her into the bar, immediately swallowed up by the interior of pulsing lights, dancing students, and pounding music.
“Cloakroom,” I yell, and Imani leads the way, easing through the crowd. She has an easier time than I do, and I resort to using my shoulders to part the half-drunk revelers. It’s less glamorous-entrance and more linebacker-clears-the-field. Getting rid of my too-warm coat is a huge relief, as is the first sip of the sticky sweet red cocktail that’s the signature drink and every girl’s favorite.
“Soooo good,” Imani moans as her eyes scan the bar behind me. In her tight faux leather pants and black satin top, she looks like a runway model. It’s hard to maintain my self-love with such a perfect friend. “Oh, Malik’s here.”
I swivel on my heels and find Imani’s gorgeous older brother weaving his way toward us. Behind him, gathered around a hive of blonde, blue-eyed puck bunnies, is the rest of the Eastern U hockey team, including my ex-stepbrothers. My eyes meet Jacob’s icy blue stare, and a shiver-inducing cold sensation cascades down my spine. The content I posted last night is still fresh in my mind. The footage of him raging on the ice, throwing punches, and body-checking his opponents gave me a very different feeling when I was alone, warming parts other men don’t seem able to reach, but coming face-to-face with him in public fills me with unease. I don’t want to be recognized as the little girl he and his brothers shamed for her appearance. And I don’t want anyone to figure out that I’m the brains behind Icing the Cake.
Next to him, Shawn leans in to say something, but Jacob continues to stare at me. With his blond hair flopping messily and his ropey forearms encircled by thick reptile tattoos, he seems ready for trouble. Shawn is less aggressive looking, with an easy smile that he turns in my direction when his brother doesn’t respond. My expression must strike him as weird because his mouth quirks in one corner, and his eyebrows make a quizzical V. I turn away, finally coming to my senses just as Malik reaches us, leaning in to kiss his sister and then me.
“You girls got in, then.”
“Did you ever doubt me?”
“They’re usually strict here.” He grins down at me with soft, caramel eyes that could melt panties off a nun and a white-toothed smile like the sun coming out after an eclipse. Jesus, these two have outstanding genes. “That’s a killer dress, Riley. You on the hunt for some man candy?”
“Damn, Malik.” Imani sucks more of the drink through her straw, hollowing her cheeks. “What the fuck is man-candy?”
“I don’t know.” He laughs, pressing his broad palm over his flat stomach. His shirt clings in all the right places, accentuating rounded pecs and a waist so narrow that the corset-wearing Victorians would be jealous. “Isn’t it the kind of thing you girls talk about?”
“No. No, it isn’t.”
I lean in, inhaling his spicy cologne. “Well, it is sometimes.”
Imani snorts. “There’s nothing sweet about any of the men in this place.”
Malik looks around, dragging his gaze over the huddle of his teammates and into further corners where other students from Eastern have gathered. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“I’m sweet,” a deep voice rumbles behind me. I freeze because I know who it is without turning. Jacob Drayton, star forward and NHL draft favorite. I’ve watched enough of his interviews to identify his deep baritone without requiring visual confirmation.