Dropping the Mitts (CEDAR RAPIDS RACCOONS #5) by Lasairiona McMaster EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Lasairiona McMaster
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 4 MB
- Price: Free
Penelope
ONE YEAR AGO
“Nice taco.” Amusement coats the deep voice of the guy somewhere
behind me. Like I haven’t heard a million variations of ‘I like your
taco’ all evening. But of course, this dude thinks he’s the one guy
that’s original.
I don’t snort and tell him to eat shit and die like I did to the other guy
who told me he wanted to eat my taco, but I’m not throwing myself at his
feet right now, either.
Dressing like Taco Belle for the sophomore Halloween party—a
combination between Taco Bell and Belle from Beauty and the Beast—was
a great idea at the time. But I didn’t give thought to the countless innuendos
and come-ons I’d be subjected to all night.
I’m standing in the study of the parents-are-gone-for-the-weekend house
this Halloween party’s going down in. I needed some quiet, but as it turns
out, I wasn’t the only one who wandered from the main part of the building.
I didn’t see anyone when I walked in, which tells me he was either hiding
because he heard someone approach, the oversized brown leather couch
swallowed him, or I skimmed the room so fast I missed him.
But I’m most definitely not alone in this room.
“I said nice taco.” His voice is louder, closer, and still laced with
amusement that tells me he’s confident enough that he’s onto something,
like a fisherman who has cast his line and is waiting for a nibble.
Why is he so insistent on getting a response from me with an uninspired
line? Is this how low the bar is these days?
Unfortunately for this guy, I don’t nibble. I bite.
“Thanks, I made it myself.” I keep my voice flat and my gaze fixed on
the family portraits hanging on the dark wooden walls. I’m not turning
around. In part, because I’m afraid the giant, papier-mâché taco strapped to
my head will launch off, a projectile missile sailing through the air at some
unsuspecting fucker destined for concussion.
He probably won’t think my taco’s so nice if it hits him in his face.
And the other part is because I’m tired of rejecting men who think
because I’m fat I don’t have standards.
“If you were a seagull, who would you shit on first?” He’s not giving
up.
Huh. Interesting. Points for trying to be creative I guess.
I can’t say that’s a question I’ve been asked before, and it gives me
pause. Which, undoubtedly, was his plan, to make me hang around in his
orbit for just a little longer. I tip my head, tapping my bottom lip with a
well-manicured finger.
He falls silent. Perhaps he’s giving me space and time to think of an
answer, or perhaps he’s picking out his next taco to compliment, either way,
the silence is filled with someone strumming a chord on an acoustic guitar.
If I’m not mistaken, it’s D-major.
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