Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
The guy scoots his barstool closer.
Dammit. I shouldn’t have answered!
“So what does a publicist do?”
“We strategize with clients on their brand, manage social media platforms, that kind of thing.” I stay facing the bar, which unfortunately means I’m facing my drink which unfortunately means I drink it all.
Oops.
The room spins. I pull off my work jacket and hang it on the back of my chair.
I’m sure I should ask what he does for a living, but I’m really not interested in carrying this further. I know how it’s supposed to end, and since I’m not looking for that end, it’s a waste of both our time. I came to hang out with Shanna not get laid.
Where in the hell is Shanna?
Oh good, here she comes. Wait, why is she bringing another round?
“Oh, no, no, no.” I push the martini to the far side of the bar. “I’ve had enough. I should probably get home.”
My wanna-be hookup hops off his barstool. “I can get you home safely.”
I shake my head and hold up my hand. “No, no, no, no. I’m going to sit a while and then go home.” I’m slurring now.
“Well, if you’re going to stay, at least have a few sips of the drink I bought you.” Wanna-be slides the drink back in front of me.
Someone appears on my other side and a hand slides the drink away again. The fingers are tattooed, like—
“Hey!” I’m irrationally excited. “I know someone with tattoos like—” I look up at the man beside me and the words die in my mouth. “Oh, it’s you.”
Nikolai smiles down at me with amusement, like my drunk self isn’t completely obnoxious. “It’s me. I’m going to take you home now.”
I turn to look at Wanna-be, slapping the back of my hand against Nikolai’s chest. “He’s going to take me home.”
Wanna-be is pissed. “Who’s he?”
“He’s my brother’s—” my brain catches up and I amend, “he’s my boyfriend. He came to pick me up because I had too much to drink.”
Even in my drunken state, zings of excitement run through me knowing what I’ve just invited. Pretending to be the girlfriend of a guy in the Russian mafiya probably opens a door I should’ve left shut. Am I really going to let Nikolai take me home?
Wanna-be scowls at me. “You could’ve told me that before I bought you two drinks.”
My brain spins off on possible retorts, like, I said I didn’t want a drink or I’ll pay for the fucking drink, then, asshole, but Nikolai tosses two twenties on the bar. “They’re paid for. Now turn around and walk away before I break your nose.”
Wanna-be’s eyes narrow, and I realize with a lurch of misgiving that Nikolai would follow-through without the blink of an eye.
“He’s not kidding,” I say quickly as I hop off my bar stool in Nikolai’s direction. “Sorry for the confusion.”
“Don’t apologize to him,” Nikolai growls.
Wanna-be scowls and shakes his head then grabs the money from the bar and walks away, pocketing it all.
“He took the whole thing?” I wave my hand in the direction of the place where the bills were in disbelief. “If he doesn’t leave my friend the very best tip, I will kick his ass myself,” I turn and declare to Nikolai, whose lips kick up.
He curls his tattooed fingers around my nape. “You ready to go?”
“Wait, wait, wait. Just hold on.” I register how exaggerated my speech is but can’t seem to modulate it. “What are you doing here?” I squint up at my sexy rescuer.
He shrugs. “I came in for a drink. Saw this guy bothering you and figured I should intervene.”
I wrinkle my nose and cock my head to the side. I’m too tipsy to decipher what’s off about his explanation but fortunately Shanna finally reappears to help me out.
Nikolai
Gospodi, I wanted to pound that mudak who was hitting on Chelle into the ground.
Dima gave me his full report on Zane’s older sister a couple days ago, and one of the things he’d flagged was her regular charges at this cocktail lounge every Wednesday evening. I came tonight just to see who she had a standing date with and, then, was surprised to see her alone.
Now, as the bartender gives me a very sharp once-over, I understand. Chelle said the bartender was her friend. This is who she comes to hang out with on Wednesdays. At least, I hope that’s the explanation.
It sure as hell wasn’t that bastard buying her too many drinks when she clearly can’t handle them.
“Hey, what are you doing with my friend?” the bartender demands.
I give her a cool look. “I’m taking her home. She’s obviously had too much to drink, which you could’ve prevented.”
The corners of her lips tip up like I busted her. “I was trying to get my friend laid. He seemed nice enough.”