Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
If Renn Brewer would’ve asked me to marry him, I would’ve said no.
Why?
One, his reputation precedes him. His name is in the headlines at least once a month. Two, he’s not just my brother’s best friend. They’re teammates. And three, I’m in my self-care era.
Unfortunately, a version of me equates self-care with bad choices.
The cocktail in my hand—similar to the one that got me into this situation—is the prettiest shade of pink. It’s almost the same color as the giant rock on my left hand. And instead of discussing an annulment, I’m considering a 90-day marriage of convenience to the man I accidentally married in Las Vegas.
Renn didn’t propose marriage. But he does deliver a proposal I might be unable to turn down.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Blakely
“Could you die quietly?” Ella sighs, pulling her sunglasses down and squinting into the sunlight. “And maybe do it over there, please?”
Two quintessential frat boys, a label I’d bet my life on yet feels like a disservice to fraternities everywhere, cease their constant complaints about being hungover. Their whining is a show, a pathetic effort to gain attention, and one we’re over—especially Ella.
They fire a dirty look at my best friend. She cocks a brow, challenging them right back, and waits.
Lying on the chaise next to her, I smirk. How many seconds will it take for them to realize they’re outgunned by a five-foot-three pistol with bubble-gum pink toenails?
Eight … Nine … Ten …
They gather their things quietly, watching Ella like she might toss them into the pool if they don’t act quickly enough.
I wouldn’t be shocked if that happened, either.
Ella St. James doesn’t surprise me much anymore. She carried a tray of freshly baked snickerdoodle cookies when she rang my doorbell three years ago. She was adorable, wearing an apron with embroidered cherries and a white silk ribbon in her hair while welcoming me to the Nashville neighborhood. It starkly contrasted with the following weekend when she took me out so I could get acquainted with the city. That night ended with Ella jacking some guy’s jaw for trying to grope me on the dance floor and me picking her up from the police station in an Uber at three in the morning.
“Thank you,” she says, sliding the glasses up her nose and returning to her book.
Las Vegas is sweltering. Blue water sparkles just inches from our feet, and I swear it only amplifies the sun’s rays. We should probably get a massage or go shopping to beat the unbearable heat, but I didn’t fly for almost four hours to stay inside.
I could’ve celebrated my new job and birthday like that in Tennessee.
“How do you think I would look with red hair?” I ask, stretching my legs in front of me. “Not bright cherry red, but a more purple-y, crimson-y red.”
“No.”
I furrow my brows. “That wasn’t a yes or no question.”
“I was cutting to the chase.” Her fingertip trails along the bottom of the paperback. “That’s not the question you were really asking.”
It wasn’t? I settle against my chair. Yeah, it wasn’t.
It was a last-minute attempt at being young and reckless before I turn thirty tomorrow.
This whole birthday crap has been a bit of a mind fuck.
I’ve lived the past ten years with little abandon. I’ve traveled, dated, and swam with sharks. Went on a ten-city tour with a rock band. Attended a movie premiere, got engaged (and unengaged), and ate pizza at the world’s oldest pizzeria in Naples. Check that off the bucket list. And with every year of fun, I assumed I had nothing to worry about—that I would have my shit together before I turned thirty and became a real adult.
That was an incorrect assumption.
By all accounts, I should be in a stable relationship and burdened with a mortgage and enough debt to bury my soul until Jesus returns. Appliances should excite me. I should have a baby. I should understand life insurance. Instead, I just broke up with another bad boy with commitment issues, re-upped the rental contract on my townhouse, and refilled my birth control.
But that all ends in six hours. I have to turn over a new leaf when the sun comes up. It’s time.
Ella’s book snaps closed. “This is not a tri-life crisis, Blakely. It’s just a birthday.”
“I know that.”
“But do you?”
“Yes, I do,” I say, mocking her. “I’m not in crisis mode. I’m just transitioning into this new era of buying eye cream and freezing my eggs, and it’s a little … terrifying.”
She sighs. “You’ve been buying eye cream for years.”
“Yeah, as a hedge against the future. This is the future.”
Ella rolls onto her side, brushing her dark hair off her shoulder. “While I can’t relate because I have a solid two years before I’m thirty—”
“Was that necessary?”
She laughs. “You’re freaking out for no reason. Tomorrow is just another day.”
“I know. I really do. There’s just this pressure to get my ducks in a row and start making serious progress, or else I’ll be fifty with no husband or kids. And I want both.”
“All I ask is that you be a little more selective on the husband part because the last few guys you’ve dated …” She whistles. “Not good, Blakely.”
Yeah, I know.
“I know you feel your biological clock ticking or whatever it is, but you have been doing big things,” she says. “You’re the new artist manager assistant at Mason Music Label. Remember, you little badass? That’s impressive.”
I shrug happily at the reminder. That’s true—a dream come true, really. And even more of a reason to get my shit together. “But would I be even more impressive as a redhead?”