Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
My heart finally gets the message my brain keeps sending. The gooey feeling fades, replaced by anxiety.
Awesome. So much better.
I’m breathing faster, and his arms tighten around me.
Even in his sleep, it’s like he’s tuned to my mental state with this instinct to protect me—even from myself.
And I remember the way he held me when I broke down and spilled about Harry—the breakdowns I’ve been having way too often lately—and all the sweet things Brady said.
The way he convinced me it’s not my fault.
That sticks in my head like bubble gum to hair. Impossible to separate without hacking it out.
I roll over, pressing my lips to his collarbone, careful not to wake him. Brady doesn’t stir, but he makes a soft sound of contentment and slides his leg between mine.
I breathe with my eyes closed until my nervousness fades and the confusion settles, just letting myself be.
This doesn’t have to be so complicated.
We can enjoy each other just fine.
We can enjoy the time we have, and at the end of it, we can still walk away as friends.
Oh, but doesn’t that feel satisfying?
Friends.
That word feels ludicrously pale compared to whatever the hell we are now.
Not friends, but not together.
Well, technically we’re pseudoengaged. To the world at large, we’re a smiling power couple, counting down the days to our extravagant happily-ever-after.
But technically doesn’t have a smidge of reality, much less a real, heartfelt love story behind it.
I’m not sure what this story means, besides having more money in my life, and that scares me more than anything.
My eyes flick to Brady again. The stubble that left a rash on my inner thigh. The way his eyelashes cast half moons across his cheek.
A proud nose that might be too big for his face if it wasn’t for his strong, sculpted jaw.
A strong face, Mom would say. All carved lines and princely features designed to trap hearts.
He rocks masculine beauty in a way that makes my breath catch like a hiccup every time I see him.
That smile too. That ridonkulous smile.
I don’t know how he does it, turning it on and chasing the shadows away with every effortless grin.
Smiling certainly comes easier for him than me.
That probably has a lot to do with spending his life in front of the media.
When he smiles for me, it’s different from the million-dollar grin I’ve seen scattered across the internet a hundred times.
A little more genuine. Infinitely warmer.
And yes, I’m a sucker for big blue eyes. Like chips of sky brought down to be windows to a very kind soul. The way they darken when they look at me—
God.
I am so completely screwed. So far in over my head I’m basically a pretzel.
Casual was my thing after Harry. And when we agreed to do this, I never expected it to turn physical, especially not this fast.
What happens if we can’t stop? What if we can’t—
A knock at the door rips me out of my brooding.
My heart lunges up my throat, adrenaline pumping through my limbs. My brain races through every possibility.
Harry, returning for revenge? Unlikely this early in the morning.
Elle? Nah. She’s off in LA this week with billionaire bae for some illustrators conference. Plus, she’s never been a big drop-in girl.
Dr. Ezzie? Impossible. She never comes over, though I think she technically knows where I live.
We’ve never quite touched the friends side of colleagues, even if there’s massive respect on both sides. Probably the age difference, and she also has her own life to worry about.
Work doesn’t leave me much time for a lot of socializing between the long hours and everything it takes out of me. I should work on that, I know.
Another drumming knock sends me out of bed, though, scattering for something to throw on.
I grab a robe from the back of a chair and tie it around my waist as I head through the tiny apartment to the door and open it without looking.
There, standing on my front porch, is the sweetest old lady with the mind of a twenty-year-old master criminal.
Grandma Lark, or just Gran to the world.
She’s got a classic yellow raincoat over her flowery blue dress, rubber boots pulled up to her knees, and a steaming plate covered with a tea towel in her hands.
She’s in her seventies now, and although she sometimes plays the poor-old-lady card, she’s as spry as I am.
She could probably leave me in the dust.
Technically, she’s Elle’s grandma. We’re not blood related or anything.
But we’ve also been close for as long as I can remember, ever since I used to run up to her door as a kid and she’d bribe me with handfuls of chocolate for helping her pull weeds in her garden. Or the many times my bestie and I fought over coloring books and Gran would make us talk it out over tea.