Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Okay.
I need to rethink that last line.
It’s probably best not to blame the owner for us breaking the rules.
“You think I can get a picture with you two?” She brings her cup up to her glossed lips. “Together?”
Why does that sound more porntastic than it should?
“Yeah no, no problem,” Peck replies, preparing to ditch the LMC accessory covering the front of him.
“Aprons on,” purrs Pattssee.
Not gagging is difficult yet relocating to the other side of the counter isn’t.
“Ugh,” she pouts on a tiny wiggle, “we need more space.”
“There is a bit more towards the back by the restrooms.” I casually point. “I’ve seen other fans using it to pose with their signed materials while another takes the actual photo.”
“Perfect!” She grabs my hand with her free one, an action that has Peck lightly laughing at my expense.
Can’t blame him.
I would do the same if the situation were reversed.
The more secluded area stays that way thanks to her steady, shrill, squeaking insisting that people are going to mess up her shot.
Post her placing her cup on the decorative table, Peck and I each place a hand on her lower back, lean in, and smile for the photo op, suspecting that she’ll want more.
And she does.
Various positions are struck one after another, angles taken, recalibrated, and then executed to be taken again; however, by the time we’ve entered our sixth stance with Peck and I beyond bromantically close, there’s a spearing in my gut that has me believing these may be for her own personal fantasy collection.
Which is fine.
Honestly.
Everyone should have a spank tank.
I just don’t have to be part of the replenishing effort.
My mouth drops to declare that’s probably enough when Khurana pops his head around the corner to announce, “Peck, your fiancée is here.”
“Wings?!” His enthusiasm is instant. “Wings is here?!”
“I didn’t see her carrying wings,” Khurana confusedly counters, “but uh…maybe?”
Peck’s eyeroll is expected as is his swift self-dismal that unfortunately leaves me all alone with the wanna be Guinevere. “Can we do just a couple more?” She doesn’t leave room for denial and aggressively presses herself into my side, posing with one leg in the air. “Smolder.”
“What?”
“Smolder.” She presses her lips together in a small pout and leans inward towards the camera. “Like Beckham.” What I assume is meant to be a flirty look is executed. “Or Hunnam.” Her eyes meet mine in the camera. “Or Tiffin.”
“You do know they’re all English, yes?”
“So are you.”
Click, click, click, precedes me sighing, “Doctenn.”
“Ohmygod,” she cranes her face up to mine, “that’s so much hotter.” Another click is taken. “Can you like lean towards me and say your line again?”
Annoyance threatens to rear its ugly head when I snap my face downward. “It is not a line. I am Doctenn.”
Pattssee cups my cheek and coos, “Perfect.”
Her face crane closer to mine – too close in fact – prompting me to step away at the same time Arden steps in. “What the fuck’s going on back here?”
There isn’t even time to open my mouth to reply.
“And why are you back here?”
“The main room is too crowded for us to be together,” announces the female I can’t fight the feeling is about to be a point of contention.
“We were simply taking fan photos,” I promptly explain, hands lifting in surrender.
“What’s next, fan nudes?” Her arms fold firmly across her Dalvegan polo covered chest. “OnlyFans lives?”
“Tell me you do those!” gleefully squeals the blonde. “What’s your handle or whatever?”
“Listen, Pattssee with two ts, two ss, and two ees-”
“That’s an awful lot of information to know about a ‘fan’ you supposedly just met.”
“I served her coffee.”
“That better be all you fucking served her, Tanner.”
“Of course that’s all I bloody served her, Arden.”
“Should I go?” She idiotically asks only to immediately be met by two sets of scowls. “Yeah, I should so go.”
“Yeah, you so should,” murmurs my girlfriend through gritted teeth.
Pattssee scurries out of sight, her departure presenting me with an opening to clarify the scene, “I can explain-”
“Yeah no, I don’t want you to explain.”
“You don’t want me to explain?” Furrowing of my brow can’t be stopped. “You don’t want to understand what was ensuing?”
“No, I don’t not, not want you to explain. I want you not in positions where you have to explain.”
“She just wanted a few photos with me and Pecks not in a crowded space.”
“Pecks who isn’t here?”
“He may not be here now; however, he was!”
“Sure, he was.”
“He was!”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t!”
“Why wouldn’t I?! Could it be because this feels an awful lot like when Wahl was around then magically wasn’t when it was your turn to allegedly cop a feel of that broadskie in Jersey?”
“She asked us to sign her tits!”
“Or like having that rubber – you swear was for Potato – just fall out of your pocket at breakfast post a ridiculously late night at the ballet with the boys?”