From the writer of Sweet Spot, comes the sequel of two familiar characters you already saw coming.
Harper Davis has many titles: marketing connoisseur, almost-lawyer, disappointment to parents, and most importantly: liar. Big. Fat. Liar. But what el...
Йой! Нажаль, це зображення не відповідає нашим правилам. Щоб продовжити публікацію, будь ласка, видаліть його або завантажте інше.
I take a sip of my coffee and physically feel it finding its way to my headache to calm it down.
Am I addicted to caffeine? Maybe.
Will I give it up? Never.
Do I need it so I can get through today without giving in to the urge of driving myself into the forest and living with dwarfs for the rest of my life? Absolutely.
Do I believe that Snow White was seeing some action from one of those said dwarfs? Definitely. But that's a conversation for another time.
Today's conversation includes the madness of yesterday that I'm still recovering from. I didn't get one damn lick of sleep last night. The culprit in question?
That's my wife.
As in of the domestic sort. The "legally bound to her" wife. The "gets sex from her whenever I want" wife. The "exchanged vows promising the rest of our lives to each other" wife.
Sawyer's wife. No quotations for that one.
Because it's true. Honestly and genuinely true. Trust me—I asked.
"That's my wife."
What...the ever-loving fuck?
My mouth dropped open. Mao's mouth dropped open. And we stared. We stared and we gaped until Mao yowled in horror and ran straight into his littler box to take what I assumed was a massive shit.
I wished I could do the same.
"Tink?" Sawyer asked when I failed to give a verbal response. My hanging jaw was as good as it got. "Say something. Please."
Say something? Was he for real? I'd been working with him for two years, watched him flirt with other women, watched him flirt with me, agreed to fake-date him, and he was telling me he was married?
It sounded so bizarre, so comical, that my remaining two brain cells came up to a single conclusion—he was lying.
"Oh my God," a laugh suddenly burst out of me followed by a wheeze. I was wheezing. Wheezing bad. I sounded like Grandpa Davis when we took him off life support. Also, dark humour as a coping mechanism was completely valid too. I didn't want to hear it. "You got me. You so got me. God, I can't believe I almost believed you."
"I'm not lying, Tink."
"You know, everyone I know says you're a funny guy but I think I finally see it now."
"Tink—"
"You're married. Ha! And I'm a mentally stable adult who has her life together and isn't crippled with trauma."
"Tink—"
"And I have a great relationship with my parents while we're at it. This is comedic gold."
