Beowulf for Cretins: A Love Story by Ann McMan

Author:Ann McMan [McMan, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612941189
Publisher: Bywater Books
Published: 2018-05-26T22:00:00+00:00

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After Lorrie left—which wasn’t until ten—Grace called Abbie . . . six times. Each time, her calls rolled immediately to voice mail, meaning Abbie was either on the phone with someone else, which Grace doubted, or she’d turned the damn thing off.

Grace was furious with Lorrie for just showing up unannounced and posturing that they were—anything other than what they were. There was no way Abbie could believe she had any interest in Lorrie—or that she’d had a prior commitment with her that night.

Was there?

The whole thing was ridiculous—and surreal. What were the fucking odds?

And she knew better than to underestimate all that lurked behind Lorrie’s Little Miss Sunshine routine. The woman’s motivations were about as benign as a good dose of mustard gas.

How did I get into this mess? It’s like being caught inside a snowball, rolling ass-over-teakettle down a double black diamond run at Stowe.

Grace quit pacing and grabbed the phone again.

“Come on, Abbie. Pick up.”

No dice. Her voicemail message began. Even in her distress, Grace stood there like a heartsick schoolgirl and listened to the entire thing. Abbie’s voice was so goddamn sexy . . .

Fuck it. She wanted to throw her damn phone across the room.

Abbie had to talk with her. Tonight. This was absurd. There was no possible way she could think Grace would two-time her with Lorrie. Hell. Grace was barely capable of one-timing with Abbie.

She sat down and tapped her cell phone against her leg.

It would be delusional to think Lorrie wouldn’t blab about this. It was too juicy a tidbit not to share. And Lorrie was someone who would use this information like currency.

But to what end? Her better self took up the argument. Lorrie had no stake in anything at St. Allie’s. When the semester ended, she’d be gone.

Not so fast, her darker self argued. If she innocently blabbed about it to, say, Bryce—it would be “game on.”

But Lorrie knew Bryce was a conniving shit who would only use the salacious tidbit to hamstring Grace’s chances at beating his ass out for tenure. She’d never do something that stupid. Would she?

Grace snagged the near-empty bottle of cognac from the table beside her chair. She was lifting it to her mouth when her cell phone rang. The sudden noise scared the shit out of her and the bottle slipped from her hand, spilling its precious, final few ounces all over her pants.

Great. Just great.

She answered her phone and wiped furiously at her leg.

“Hello?” she said expectantly, hopeful it was Abbie calling back.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” a voice barked. “I put you into the path of one of the greatest, not to mention available and totally hot, women on the planet—and you manage to blow it to bum-fucking smithereens in two goddamn seconds.”

Grace sighed. “Hello, Rizzo. Nice to hear from you.”

“Spare me the social niceties.” Rizzo took another bite out of the phone. “I just got off the horn with Abbie and she’s pissed as hell.”

“At me?”

“No. At the Emir of Qatar.

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