My Wingman Stole Seven Women
Language: en
I brought the ceramic mug to my lips and took a slow sip. The iced coffee slid down my throat, a sharp, freezing contrast to the stifling heat of the afternoon. Then, the male voice drifting over from the window booth made my blood run cold. It was a voice I knew better than my own. It was Thomas. "Babe, when are you finally going to tell him?" he asked, his tone dripping with an easy, confident affection. The woman sitting across from him let out a soft, dismissive laugh. "What’s the rush? You know how ridiculously picky he is." "It’s been three months," the woman added, her voice…