The Love Wager (Mr. Wrong Number, #2)

by Lynn Painter

He felt like a pathetic fuck whenever she brought it up, because he had been going through some weird emo phase over the past couple years. He had friends, coworkers, family—his life was full of people—yet he felt alone a lot.

relatable

He looked genuinely concerned, and she was a bit bummed that she’d gotten the ick.

Hallie was laughing and smiling at her date like she wanted to eat him whole. There is no way that guy can be that funny. No way. But every time she laughed, it was like the noise found his ears; he couldn’t not hear it. And the way her red lips turned up when she smiled—didn’t she know the message she was sending? The guy was going to think he had her, for God’s sake, just by the flirty grin she was giving him. Jack genuinely wanted Hal to find someone, but this guy was not it. His hair had so much product in it he’d probably combust if he walked too close to an open flame, and there was something about the way he looked at Hallie that was creepy. Just looking at the guy as he shit-grinned at her made him annoyed as hell. And the dude was wearing Chuck Taylors with a blazer; did he think he was a fucking talk show host?

Oooooo. Jealouuuuuuus.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, that bothered him. A lot. Where was his partner in crime? Was their alliance no longer a thing now that she’d landed a date she considered decent? He felt a little kicked to the side as she went about her date like she didn’t even know him.

“Oh, thank God.” He laughed, and over the smell of animal, he could smell her perfume. He wasn’t sure what she wore, but it always drifted into his awareness in the same way he could always sniff out barbecue when he walked into a restaurant.

What the fuck

Also, did he really have to call her “Hal,” like it was that hard to say her full name?

Any human would need smelling salts after Jack Marshall’s mouth touched their mouth.

“Hal. You need to stop. That. Shit.” Jack grabbed her upper arms and set her a step away from him, his voice a little gravelly.

Oh, God, those legs. He had thick, chiseled calves. She was such a sucker for a good calf. He had very bitable calves, if that was a thing.

Eww. Immediately no.

The picture of her was positively garish. Her eyes were half-open, her lipstick was smudged, her nostrils were flared, and the photo was so up close that you

couldn’t see more than her eyes, nose, and upper lip. She looked like the ghost of a drunk clown.

That was the moment she knew.

“Finally. The service elevator.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat before sucking her tongue, before treating her mouth like it was a juicy, ripe peach that he wanted to eat whole.

Icky