Streams and Schemes by Rebecca Kinkade EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Rebecca Kinkade
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
VALERIA
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“…IS THIS YOU?”
My stomach plummets so fast, scientists should study me. They should
whisk me off to sea, track down a pod of deep-sea diving whales, and
challenge them to a race. Then, all they’d have to do is put a hot guy in
front of me and make him say, “Is this you?” and my stomach would drop,
propelling me straight to the ocean floor faster than anything. Put me up
against the baddest bitch in that pod. Bet I’d win.
Connor clears his throat with a low cough, his Adam’s apple bobbing and
casting a shadow under the bar’s dim, fuchsia wall lights. His expression
teeters somewhere between confusion and shock, but only briefly. The
confusion quickly melts into mortification.
Right. I’m caught.
Shit.
Shit. Shit.
My hand clenches my bottle of Stella Artois until part of the label, damp
with condensation, separates from its adhesive and curls into a thin tendril
against the palm of my hand. I don’t let up. Seconds pass, and somehow my
hand manages to tighten, threatening to crack the parakeet green glass.
After three years in the business, I really should be used to this happening.
Shit.
My eyes drift back and forth between the phone in front of my face and
the furrowed brow of the guy holding it.
I mean…I could lie, I guess. If I spin this right, I could probably convince
Connor that the naked girl on his phone—the one gleefully licking a
sparkly, hot pink vibrator—simply looks identical to me and has the same
monumentally stunning tits as me, but definitely isn’t me. It would have to
be a masterclass in finesse, but I could manage.
“Valeria, is this you?” he repeats, waving the phone as if I can’t see it
three inches from my nose.
It takes me a beat to realize he’s starting to panic. He’s keeping it together
and masking the obvious signs, but reading men is my game. His microexpressions tell me he’s losing it. Wide eyes. The flush in his complexion.
The way he gulps down air. His brow is furrowed so tightly, it may actually
be stuck like that. And his knuckles? Clearly turning white.
Yep—panic.
From experience, I know this conversation is about to go one of two
ways: Connor is either going to drop his phone like a hot deuce and back
away, or he’s going to laugh awkwardly before asking a series of invasive
questions. Those questions will then segue into him telling me he’s cool
with my job because he’s not like other guys, and he’ll promise to call me
this week.
Both possibilities end with us never speaking again.
Sighing, I bid a silent farewell to Connor, vow to delete the dating app
where I found his panicky ass, and mentally pour one out in memory of the
two weeks I wasted texting him.
Time to get this show on the road.
“That’s me,” I confirm, nodding at his phone before I take an aggressively
long drink of my beer. And another. And another.
…Okay, fine—I chug the entire thing in six seconds flat.
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