Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 342(@200wpm)___ 273(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“You’re his best friend,” I say. “And I don’t think we should be having this conversation. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep what I said to yourself. He just lost his dad and—”
Cainan lifts a hand. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
I exhale.
I plan to end things once we get back to Phoenix and Grant feels well enough to return to work. While I hate the thought of hurting him, I also think it’s cruel to drag it out and lead him on any longer than necessary.
The door to the bar swings open once more, this time nearly smacking against the brick until the hinge catches it.
This time it is Grant.
He steadies himself against the wall, his gaze unfocused as he attempts to study the two of us. Music thumps behind him, growing faint as the door coasts shut.
“Where was my invite?” he asks, slurring. Stumbling toward me, he loops a muscled bicep around my shoulders, tugging on my hair and nearly dragging me down in the process. “What’s up, guys?”
“You should get him home.” Cainan gives me a look, apologetic almost, laced with a hint of sadness, though I can’t figure out why. Maybe he, too, was secretly and guiltily enjoying this alone time? “I’m going to get you a cab, man. We’re cutting you off.”
We’re. He said we’re. Like we’re a team.
The fiancée and the best friend.
He heads to the curb to hail a cab, and when we get one, he and I hook our arms around a man who can hardly keep himself upright, and place him carefully in the backseat. Sliding in beside him, I close the door and roll the window down.
“Thank you,” I tell Cainan.
He stands on the curb, hands tucked into his front jeans pockets, and he leaves us with a nod. We’re halfway down the street, when I steal a glimpse behind us and catch him watching as we drive off, like he hadn’t moved an inch.
Two minutes later, we’re en route to our suite at the Peninsula, the traffic stop-and-go the entire way. Grant slumps against me, head on my shoulder, and I crack the rear window to catch a break from the stale cab and alcohol spores invading my airspace.
I’ve never seen Grant drink this much. I’ve also never seen him so careless or irresponsible. But given what happened this week, I give him the benefit of the doubt.
He probably needed an escape.
He needed a good time with his friends.
He needed to smile.
He needed to forget that sometimes life sweeps the rug out from under us when we least expect it.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m paying the cab driver and helping Grant out of the backseat. A handful of curious onlookers watch as the hotel doorman approaches with an outstretched, white-gloved hand. We manage to make it inside and board the elevator to the seventh floor when Grant decides it’s a good time to press his mouth against my neck and shove his hand up my skirt.
Never mind that we’re not alone.
Never mind that we’ve never so much as gotten frisky in public before.
I brush him away and he laughs, slumping against the wallpapered interior as the elevator cart deposits the first load of passengers on the third level.
The doors close.
Grant burps.
A woman in head-to-toe Chanel with penciled-in eyebrows whips around and gives him a dirty look.
I ignore her and count the seconds until we arrive at our stop.
One … two … three … four …
“This is us.” I loop my arm in his and drag him through the parted doors, down the hall, and to our suite.
I swipe the keycard and tug him in, watching carefully as he staggers to the king-sized bed and collapses in a heap. I fully expect him to pass out—which is why it catches me off-guard when he rolls to his back and shoots me the lopsided grin of a man with one thing on his mind.
“Baby, you looked so fucking hot tonight.” His compliment jumbles together, like one big, long word. And then he pats the comforter before unzipping his slacks.
“You’re drunk.” I turn my back to him, unearthing a pair of pajamas from my suitcase. “Get some sleep. We’ve got brunch with your friends in the morning and then we’re flying out.”
“Come on. Don’t leave me hanging …”
I shimmy out of my dress and unclasp my bra and get changed. When I turn back, I find him passed out, mouth open, semi-hard cock in his hand.
Exhaling, I slide his shoes off, followed by his pants, and then I return his manhood back to his silk boxers before covering him with a blanket and climbing in beside him.
Rolling to my side, I bury a hand under my pillow and shut my eyes.
The mattress shifts a moment later, and the warmth of his body presses against mine, followed by his arm anchoring over me as his body melds against me. The sharp tang of liquor lingers on his breath with every heavy exhalation.