Oh, You’re So Cold (BAD BOYS OF BARDSTOWN #2) by Saffron A. Kent EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Authors: Saffron A. Kent
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
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- Size: 6.9 MB
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Present
HE STANDS AWAY from everyone and at the edge of everything.
Like always.
This ballroom is filled with people, every nook and cranny overflowing
with glossy gowns and dashing tuxes. But he’s managed to find one corner,
one tiny corner, by the exit to the grounds. He stands there, leaning against
the wall, sporting a tumbler of whiskey. That he hasn’t drunk from, I bet, or
taken more than a few sips of. He’s not a big drinker.
As he watches people.
As if he’s here to observe and not participate.
He’s separate from all this nonsense and frivolity. He doesn’t care for it.
It doesn’t move him or inspire him.
He rejects it.
This charity event New York City FC threw together.
I don’t blame him.
Even though such events have been the norm for me growing up, I have
also never liked them. They’re too stuffy for me. Too fake, too artificial,
with practiced smiles and rehearsed dialogues. As an unofficial theater
minor in college, my love for fake is big but not this big. So I understand
his disdain.
Besides, I don’t think he has very many things common with the rest of
the men here.
Well, except for the clothes.
He’s wearing the same shiny tux and a crisp white shirt underneath like
the rest of them. His dark brown hair’s combed and styled exactly like the
rest of the guys. And his wing-tipped shoes are polished to perfection.
He still stands out, though.
Because I know him.
While everyone here would break all the rules the first chance they get,
he will follow them no matter what. While people here will talk about the
weather or soccer stats, he can probably hold a conversation about history
and politics; I’ve heard him do both on more than one occasion. When he
does deign to speak, that is. While a weaker man would succumb to
temptation, I know he’ll stick to his one cigarette per day come what may.
Oh, and I also know he’s cold.
So, so cold.
Not that I care about any of those things I mentioned above.
I don’t.
In fact, I’m not even really watching him right now.
Nope.
It’s just that he’s in my line of vision.
And every time I look up from my drink—a white wine—my eyes
inevitably pass by him. So it’s a passing glance, is what it is. Any second
now, I’m going to pass him by and look at something else.
I am.
It’s going to happen.
“Isadora?”
I jerk, sloshing my wine dangerously close to the rim, and turn to the
voice beside me. “What, I’m sorry.”
It’s my mother.
Which I knew, of course.
I knew I was standing with my mother. I knew I was getting a drink
with my mother, which is why the drink is a tame white wine instead of
something tequila based.
I knew all that.
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