Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
It’s my goddamn life right now.
For several seconds that go by too fast we sway together as the song inevitably ends.
When a fast song blasts brightly under the tent, we wrench apart. In a heartbeat, that shuddery sensation vanishes like it didn’t even happen. Like it was just a very vivid dream.
A passing thought doing what it does—passing.
My skin’s no longer hot. My chest isn’t tingly. Whatever dirty spell I was under is broken.
I can breathe again. I inhale and exhale a few quick times. And yup, order is restored to my universe.
What a close call. I can’t believe for a second there—okay, for several seconds—I thought I was into my best friend.
Good thing I’m not.
Because falling for your best friend would be a very bad idea. Especially if you just made a marriage pact with her.
1
A PRETTY PINK DICK
Maeve
Present day
Does this clutch look like a dick?
When I grabbed it from the back of my closet of thrift shop wonders this evening before racing out the door, it looked innocent enough for a fancy pants event. But now that I’m sitting demurely under a chandelier in an upscale ballroom in a historic mansion, I’m having second thoughts about my choice of accessory.
I want to ask Asher what he thinks of it—one of our regular questions for you—but he’s getting ready to parade around on stage so someone here can bid on a date with him.
Pretty sure I can make an executive call, though, about the clutch. It’s pink, shiny, and about seven inches long.
Yup. It’s definitely got dick energy, and I don’t want to look like I’m fondling it as I sneak another peek at my phone during this charity fundraising auction.
In my reserved seat in the front row, I surreptitiously slide my index finger along the sparkly satin material and snap it open in slow-mo, hoping no one notices me checking my phone again. There’s room for lipstick, too, in the clutch and a couple credit cards, so maybe people will think I’m just making sure my makeup is safe and my accounts are in good standing.
No one will see me sneaking a peek. No one, like, oh say, my big brother next to me. Or his wife next to him. Or, really, anyone at all.
Because…rude.
But in my defense, I’m waiting for an email about a life-changing job, and it’s supposed to arrive tonight. I peer around the packed ballroom. Every seat is taken this Thursday night in January, filled with perfumed, groomed, and coiffed humans eager to bid for dates with all the eligible hockey bachelors in the city.
Asher’s not due to strut his stuff yet. Miles Falcon is up next, so I can get away with one more look before it’s my best friend’s turn.
As Erin—the color commentator for the team’s games on The Sports Network—regales the audience on stage, I slowly slide out the corner of my phone. My agent told me she’d email this evening about a huge mural project she submitted my portfolio for weeks ago. I made it past the first round. She assured me the decision was coming tonight, and I was among the top three candidates.
“And now we have Miles Falcon, the accomplished center for the San Francisco Sea Dogs who dominates the faceoff,” Erin says into the mic, her confident and playful voice filling the room as she reads from an index card touting Miles’s hobbies like hiking mountain trails and playing a mean game of pool. “He also enjoys the thrill of urban treasure hunts. Get ready to bid high when it’s time—because a date with Miles Falcon will be an adventure!”
Well, with that kind of setup, no one is going to be looking at little old me.
As Miles crosses the stage, I slide a thumb over the screen and pray to the universe to deliver me my dream job at last. I’ve spent the last few years cobbling odd jobs together, trying desperately to make a living as an artist. Mostly, though, I’ve been making a living as a server at some high-end events, which thrills my aunt, who owns the catering company I work for, but it doesn’t thrill me.
When I glance at the screen, it mocks me with its nothingness, and the empty bars in the corner where my cell reception should be.
Who invented phones?
Shoulders slumping, I snap the clutch closed as my brother nudges me.
“Maeve. You can swipe right later,” Beckett whispers in my ear.
I shoot him a look. “I was not checking a dating app. Those things are dead to me,” I hiss.
They are so dead that I hosted a party with my girlfriends the other month to delete the hell out of the latest and last dating app I’d tried. It had delivered nothing but bad matches, like men who claimed dumpster dinners were a new life hack, or guys who asked me for pictures of my feet.