Little Bits of Badness by V. J. Chambers EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: V. J. Chambers
- Language: English
- Genre: Domestic Thrillers
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I didn’t recognize him, and he smirked about that during our whole
conversation, and the irony went entirely over my head.
“Must be tough, yeah,” he said, “having your pen name outed like that.”
I went on and on, babbling about it, not even realizing his pen name had
been outed. Hell, I didn’t know he was a writer. He didn’t look like a writer.
Writers, by and large, not attractive.
I don’t say this to be cruel. Obviously, I’m a writer. I don’t consider
myself particularly attractive. Most people, generally speaking, not
attractive. Beauty wouldn’t mean anything if it wasn’t rare, after all.
But, the thing is, you can be a writer without anyone ever seeing you.
It’s a rare profession in that way. Most professions require some amount of
face time, but authors can be nearly invisible. So, attractive or not, it
doesn’t matter.
And him? He was very, very fucking attractive.
Lots of women, when they’re around attractive men, they get quiet and
shy. This is a good strategy, because men—deep down—want demure little
cute things to protect or whatever. Me, though? When I get scared or
nervous or freaked out, I get loud.
I act as if I’m not scared. I act like I’m tough and made of bullet-proof
glass.
This gets me laid, sure. Men all want to fuck a fearless woman. But it
doesn’t get me love. You can’t love someone who won’t let you in, after all.
And men like to rescue women. I don’t ever admit I need rescuing.
Not that I thought, then, that I was trying to fall in love with him.
He was just, you know, pretty. Very pretty. One of those men who’s tall
and broad, with those powerful shoulders and thick forearms—the kind
where you can see the sinews moving under the smattering of hair when he
picks up his glass. The kind of man where his arms are like weapons,
deadly, mesmerizing. But the kind of guy whose face… well, it’s like some
sculpted angelic cupid thing, with the cheeks and the blond ringlets and the
whole nine yards.
And he had an accent, too.
It was sort of muddled, not exactly British, but he’d say certain things
with that posh, BBC pronunciation and other things sounded very
American. I’d later find out that this was because his mother was American
and his father was a British viscount. And that now that his father was dead,
he was a viscount. A titled, pretty, muscled god of a man.
Yeah, show me a woman who wouldn’t fall in love with him. I couldn’t
help it.
We were sitting at an outdoor bar at a hotel in Siesta Key, Florida. We
were at a writer’s conference. Well, the writer’s conference was being
hosted at this hotel, but I wasn’t actually going to any of the actual writer’s
conference sessions.
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