Slow Play - Monica Murphy Page 0,1

square of brownie off the plate. I take a bite and immediately moan with pleasure. Not only is it good, it’s warm. Like straight out of the oven, just as I hoped. “Oh my God, so delicious,” I murmur after I swallow.

“Homemade,” Jade says, beaming with pride. She pushes the plate closer to me. “Have another one.”

I shake my head and inelegantly shove the rest of the brownie in my mouth, then lick my fingers clean. “No, thank you. I don’t normally eat sweets.”

Jade frowns. “Why not?”

Because my mother drilled it into my head from a young age that sugar is the devil. That anything that tastes or feels good is really bad for you. But she’s gone. I don’t have to worry about her watching over me, monitoring every calorie I consume, every mile I run, every page of homework I do.

I’m on my own now, so why am I still letting her control me?

“Screw it,” I mutter as I grab another piece of brownie and eat it in two bites.

Worth every second.

Laughing, Jade picks up the plate and starts toward the French doors that lead to the backyard. “I’m going outside. Want to join me?”

“I’ll stay here and man the kitchen.” Somehow, no one’s in here at the moment, which is weird. The keg is outside but there’s still stuff to drink in here, plus the food.

“I’ll be back in a minute. These brownies will fly.” With a quick smile flashed in my direction, Jade turns and pushes through the door, pulling it shut behind her.

I head over to the ice chests that sit against the wall, rooting around in one until I find a fresh bottle of water. I crack the lid off and take a long drink, extra thirsty after eating the brownies. The music still pounds from the living room, so loud I can hardly think and a girl wearing a sexy witch costume goes dashing by, giggling uncontrollably as she passes me and heads out into the backyard.

Running my free hand over my hair, I glance down at my skirt, noting how short it is. I’d been all about attracting guys last year. This year, not so much. I’m trying to be low key and this costume is the farthest thing from low key with its dipping neckline and thigh skimming hem. I saw plenty of guys checking me out earlier, no doubt intrigued by the virginal white dress and feathery angel wings. I almost look like I could’ve strutted right off the Victoria’s Secret catwalk.

Almost. I’m not so vain as to think I could be a VS model. Besides, my boobs are pretty small…

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

I freeze at the sound of the masculine voice coming from behind me. Great. Male attention I was trying to avoid, though I’m an idiot to think I could’ve avoided it with this costume on. One wrong move and my ass would be hanging out.

Slowly I turn to find a tall guy standing before me, and it takes everything I have not to roll my eyes.

Most of the dudes at this Halloween party tonight are beyond obnoxious, either wearing the most ridiculous costumes ever or behaving like assholes. Something about a mask and drinking too much booze on the spookiest night of the year brings out the worst in them.

This guy, in his sleazy pimp costume, is no exception. And wasn’t his costume played out already years ago? Made out of cheap crushed purple velvet trimmed in leopard print, with wide collars and bell bottom pants, topped by a matching purple velvet and leopard trimmed hat. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses so I can’t see his eyes, which makes me think he’s kind of shady. The grin on his face is huge, in that giant, shit-eating way good looking guys smile.

Because he so is. Good looking. He knows it too.

Oh, and he has a cane. That he’s pointing right at me at about mid-thigh.

Like he’s trying to lift the hem of my skirt.

I take a step away from him and send him my most evil glare. “You look ridiculous.”

“You look hot as fuck.” He lowers the cane and takes a step toward me, that confident grin he’s wearing perfectly matching his horrific costume. He looks like a greedy pimp. Or what we regular people think a greedy pimp must look like.

“Eloquent,” I tell him, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I ignore the little fizz of pleasure his comment gives me. I should

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