Page 56 of Biggest Player
Then,
“Don’t be an asshole—you could totally have gotten that off yourself.”
“Obviously.” Margot laughs as she slides the glass across the center island toward my waiting hand. “But you’re here to help me, and I figured we should start right away.”
Is she flirting with me?
Hard to say.
I chug the wine in my glass because wine ain’t shit and does nothing for me. I could drink the entire bottle before I felt buzzed. She watches me wide eyed as I down the glass.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a big dude.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You have?” I tease, genuinely curious about her feelings for me. Other than being disgusted by the fact that I don’t want to date a woman with kids, I don’t actually know—if I hadn’t said it ... would she go out with me?
She’s tough to read.
“Of course I have. I’m a teacher, it’s my job to notice stuff.”
Ahh. “Are you saying I act like a kid?”
Margot leans toward me, wine bottle in hand, pouring more into my glass as she says, “Did I say you act like a kid?”
No.
No she did not. But still, the implication that I’m like a kid clenches my butt cheeks a bit.
I want her to tell me more about how I’m a big dude, and how she’s noticed how big I am, and whether or not I’m her type. She did swipe on me after all ...
I take more time sipping the second glass she served me. The flavor is rich and full, and as a man who usually only drinks beer, I’m digging it.
Margot rests on her elbows as she leans against the counter, and damn if I don’t notice her cleavage, or the outline of her bra beneath her plain white shirt, or her tan collarbone.
A thin gold chain hangs around her neck with a tiny letterW.
It shimmers and winks at me, and I pull my eyes away so it doesn’t look like I’m staring at her tits.
Which I am.
I’m trying to determine how big they are without having any information. Would they fit in my hand? Is she wearing a push-up bra?
Admittedly I am an ass-and-tits guy.
Can’t help myself.
Margot, unfortunately, is wearing jeans—the slouchy kind they call boyfriend jeans—with rips and tears. They hang down past her hips, so I can’t get a look at her backside.
Bare feet.
Hair down.
It’s brown and long and in waves.
Little to no makeup.
“I like your freckles,” I tell her, drinking half the glass of wine.
