Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
I squeeze my eyes shut and clutch the phone tighter. “Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus. What am I letting you get me into?”
“It’s going to be so much fun.” Her excitement zings down the line, almost electric. “Monday is my day off, so we’ll go shopping. I’m determined to find you the perfect dress.”
“It’s a date.” The words leap out of me, reckless and impossible to call back.
She lets out a low laugh, warm and teasing. “Promise me you’ll make me your maid of honor.”
I wish I had her confidence, the way she decides things and makes them real.
CHAPTER TWO
NATHAN
I spend all day Sunday fucking clock-watching and counting down the seconds until I get to see Roni. I stop by her favorite restaurant, Julio’s, and grab a bag of tacos before heading to her apartment, ready to put on my best friend face. For the next few hours, I’ll pretend that I’m not hopelessly obsessed with my best friend. Actually, I’m so in love with her I can’t goddamn see straight.
Since I own the building, I use my keycard to get in the main door. I work on getting my shit together as I ride the elevator up to the fifth floor. I stare at the numbers ticking up and wonder if anyone else has ever been this obsessed with making sure one woman is safe. Probably not. Most people don’t buy a damn apartment building just so their best friend doesn’t have to deal with shitty landlords and sketchy neighbors, but here we are. I run a hand over my jaw and smirk to myself. Totally normal behavior, right?
Convincing Roni to move in here was the best thing I’ve ever done. Took a month of pestering, a spreadsheet’s worth of “pros and cons,” and at least ten bribes involving baked goods, but I finally wore her down. Now I sleep better knowing she’s got a secure building, cameras in every hallway, and a landlord who’d crawl through broken glass if she ever needed anything. Doesn’t make me less of a psycho, but whatever.
I knock on her door, shifting the paper bag from hand to hand because the bottom is starting to give. When the door finally cracks, she’s standing there in a pair of faded leggings and an oversized shirt with a cartoon cat flipping the bird. She’s barefoot, hair down and still a little damp from a shower. It takes all my self-control not to touch her face. Instead, I lift the bag. “I brought enough processed food to kill a horse,” I say. “Hope you’re hungry.”
She laughs, that perfect dimple showing up on her right cheek, and steps aside to let me in. “You’re my hero.” The way she says it melts my heart while simultaneously turning my cock hard as a rock.
Her one-bedroom is a postage stamp—clean but chaotic in that way only Roni can manage. Shoes tumble in a pile by the door, her spotless kitchen counter hosts exactly one dying succulent, and paperbacks stack like tiny skyscrapers against every wall because "bookshelves take up valuable floor space." The whole place smells like lemon cleaner and the vanilla candle she's always burning. I don't even bother asking if she's eaten yet; we both know she hasn't.
I set the food on her coffee table, and she’s already unpacking containers, sniffing each one. “You got the chicken tacos?”
“Of course.” I drop onto the couch, which has seen better days, and kick my feet up. “What kind of monster do you take me for?”
She grins. “The kind who brings extra chips and queso. The bestest ever.” She wiggles her eyebrows and then flops down next to me. The cushions dip so we end up practically shoulder-to-shoulder. If I moved my arm an inch, I’d have it around her. I don’t, because I’m not ready to test our friendship.
We eat in comfortable silence for a bit, the TV filling the room with the sound of badly produced reality dating shows. I don’t even know which one she’s watching since she cycles through them like most people change socks.
“So,” she says around a mouthful of chips and queso, “how’s prep for the big bachelorette auction going?”
Fuck. Work is the last goddamn thing I want to talk about. I groan, letting my head fall back against the cushions. “Eamon’s treating it like the goddamn Met Gala. There’s a guest list, a red carpet, and some influencer is coming to ‘cover the event for her blog.’” I make air quotes. “If I survive the next week, it’ll be a miracle.”
She laughs, snorting a little, and my entire ribcage feels like it’s vibrating. The sound makes me want to grab her and never let go. “Come on, Nathan. Admit it. You love the drama.” Her elbow nudges mine, soft skin pressing into me for a second longer than necessary. “You secretly live for this stuff.”