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)
“I was looking for you. I’m almost up. I need my good luck charm.”
He stops, his smile vanishing when he sees me crouched on the marble floor, my pink zebra-print bra on full display thanks to my first-ever ripped bodice. This didn’t come in a fit of passion but rather a fit of desperation.
Asher’s green eyes widen, as if he’s never seen a person who’s been stripped by a ladder before and he doesn’t know what to say. But he has an auction to do, and I don’t want him to feel off-kilter.
I glance down at the phone case and back up at Asher. “Question for you—does this clutch look like a dick?”
2
MY ACTIVE IMAGINATION
Asher
I’ve found Maeve in some unusual places over the years. At my door, dressed as a coquettish French maid, holding a butler costume and asking me to a last-minute costume party. In an empty lecture hall on her college campus, crying on the anniversary of her mother’s death. Stuck in a roadside gas station restroom after a concert one night. (Her hairpin came in handy to free her that time.) But this is tops.
Still, I didn’t think when I spotted her darting into this room that I’d find her on the floor…like this.
Maybe I should have, but this is fucking distracting. Because there’s…cleavage and kissable flesh on display. There’s a sexy bra in my line of sight and wildly inappropriate ideas forming in my head. Disheveled is a surprisingly good look on Maeve.
I never knew zebra print was hot.
Except…she’s Beckett’s sister and she’s my best friend. Best to banish those dirty thoughts to a faraway land because there’s no place for them in our friendship. Or in my life, frankly. I have plans and shit.
But before I can even ask what the hell happened, she pops up, hastily grabbing at the tattered top of her dress, trying to jam the fabric back together with sheer will. “So much for being a good luck charm,” she says, her voice trembling. “I can’t go back in there looking like a bad omen.”
She’s right. She can’t go back in there looking like this. Because nearly every man will stare at her hungrily, and I’m not okay with that.
But first things first. “You’re not a bad omen,” I reassure her.
“I am. I’m the worst, Asher. I’m so sorry,” she says as she tries to tie the tops of the ripped sides together with her talented fingers. She’s good at all things creative, but I’m pretty sure fixing a torn dress without a needle and thread is out of her wheelhouse. “I ruined your night. I came in here looking for a cell signal, and instead, I turned into…” She flaps her hands, letting go of the bodice. “A fucking agent of chaos.”
Well, she is an agent of chaos and it’s one of her many endearing qualities. But now probably isn’t the right time to point out that Maeve is simply being Maeve. I have to go back on stage for the bidding in seven minutes, and I need her in the audience. I went looking for her to make sure she hadn’t lost track of time or, I dunno, discovered a stray dog or cat or duck that she needed to take home tonight. All viable possibilities.
This is potentially a big night for a lot of reasons, and not simply because I want to keep up the tradition—though, of course, I do. The exposure that comes with winning big will help the plans Beckett and I have to launch a new charity. It’s not necessarily difficult to get people to pitch in for stray dogs and cats; it’s harder to know how to help underprivileged kids. Our charity can bridge that gap…if I can get their attention in this media-saturated world.
But that’s a few weeks down the road. This is now. Like we’re on the ice, behind in the third period, and it’s up to me to send the puck to the net, I say, matter-of-factly, “Let’s fix it.”
That’s what I do best. Solve problems for people. Help my friends.
Shutting the library door, I advance into the room.
“How?” she asks, plucking at the lace in a way I can’t let distract me. “I don’t have a sewing kit with me.” A moment later, she brightens. “Do you think somebody does? Reina? Maybe Everly? She’s backstage, right?”
Everly is both the team publicist and Maeve’s good friend. But who carries a sewing kit in their pocket? Even if she did, that rip is inches long and would take more than a few minutes to fix. “There’s not enough time. We need a fix in this room,” I say.
Maeve bites the corner of her lips. “Will you forgive me? I’m such an idiot. I should never have climbed that ladder.”
“Forgiveness?” I laugh; this is nowhere near the unforgivable zone, and she should know that. “On one condition.”