Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
My eyes scan her place, settling on the beige painted living room, the bookshelves lining the far wall. The plants. The big floor-to-ceiling windows.
I follow her to the couch because, the truth is, I want to forget that my teammate is fucking my girlfriend and that’s been the only thing occupying my thoughts. I want to forget the look on his face when our eyes met. I want to forget the look on hers. The betrayal. The way my life managed to implode in a single day.
I don’t want to think about any of it.
The woman offers me a drink, two wine glasses and a bottle in her hands as she curls up on the opposite side of the couch, one leg beneath her.
I decline. Don’t trust myself with alcohol tonight.
She gives a shy smile, pouring one for herself, hands trembling as she does.
Jumpy. Excited?
The air crackles.
What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me. And judging by the terrified look on her face, this isn’t her, either.
I shift uncomfortably, feeling too big for this room. Knees knocking the coffee table as she takes a dainty sip from her glass, eyes on me over the rim of it, the dim lighting in the room casting a warm halo over her blonde hair.
She looks gentle. Sweet.
Angelic.
“You don’t have to stay,” she says quietly, offering me an out.
I force out a chuckle. “I know.”
But I don’t move.
In fact, I feel more intact on the couch than I had before, and the silence stretches, sounds from the apartment more pronounced. The hum of the heater kicking in. Pipes. Noises from the floor below.
The rasping of my own breathing.
“This is a bad idea,” I mutter, gaze skimming her body again, watching color brightening her clear, smooth skin.
“I know,” she whispers. “But…”
She hesitates.
My brows raise as I wait for her to finish her thought. “But?”
“You’re here now.”
I feel the scowl on my face as I rake a hand through my hair. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
Her mouth curves. “I’m not.”
I remind myself that she’s a stranger and we owe each other nothing. She hasn’t asked my name, nor I hers.
“You hungry?” she blurts out suddenly. “I’ve got popcorn. Or leftover pad thai?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
She nibbles her bottom lip nervously. “Want to tell me about your long, bad day?”
A curt headshake. “Nope.” I pause. “You want to tell me about your shitty date?”
Her position shifts on the couch, and she settles deeper into the cushions, pleased to have a topic to grab on to. “I’ve been dating this guy named Preston.” She laughs softly. “His name should have been the first red flag, right?”
“That is a douchey name,” I agree.
Her eyes light up. “Tonight he ordered me a drink without asking what I wanted. Which would be fine, if he knew what I liked.”
There are worse offenses, I guess. “Strike one?”
“I’d asked him out because…” She sucks in a breath. “I have a new job—one I’m really excited and passionate about. One that pays.” Another small laugh. “And this asshole had the nerve to say, ‘But you’re not actually the one making decisions, right?’ He said that! To my face!”
“Christ. He does indeed sound like an asshole.” My jaw involuntarily tightens. “Guys who talk down to women like that are pieces of shit.”
“Wait, there’s more.” She gets more animated. “He implied I only got the job because of nepotism!”
I don’t ask for details. “That’s strike two and three.”
She nods emphatically. “So freaking rude. Then he had the freaking nerve to tell me I was being sensitive. Me! Sensitive.”
I bite back a smirk. I don’t say it, but she looks like the sensitive type. Too sweet and too kind and too trusting. Not in a weak way, in a feels things deeply kind of way.
As if an unkind word might break her.
She leans back into the couch cushion, sipping from her glass. “I knew I should’ve trusted my instincts. Probably shouldn’t have agreed to keep going out with him.” A long sigh. “Such a shame. He looked so good on paper.”
“Paper. That’s how they get ya.”
Her eyes brighten in my direction. “Exactly.” She takes another sip of her drink. “Okay. Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“Long bad day. Go.”
My brood settles back in. “I would rather not.”
Her lips part.
She sips from her glass. “W-what would you rather do?”
I glance at her, give her a good, long look.
Blonde hair that isn’t sexy like Bailey’s—it’s soft. Loose. She has a fucking ribbon tied in it, for Christ’s sake. The satin bow is tied as a headband, hair falling long and wavy around her shoulders, totally out of place in a moment like this. She should be rumbled and in sweatpants and…
The bow is pink, of course.
This woman is giving innocent in all the ways I’m not used to, and that’s a problem, isn’t it? She looks good and pure in ways that have nothing to do with lust.