Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Another long moan followed by little squeaks. Fuck. Rage boils up, sour and raw, a flavor I know too well. I want to punch holes in every wall in this godforsaken building.
I turn and pace the length of my room, back and forth, a caged animal in boxers and a sweat-damp T-shirt. Every sound from next door is a gut punch. I try, I really fucking try, to shut it out. To remind myself that Iris is none of my business, never was, never will be. I barely talk to her. She’s younger, smarter, built for a different kind of life than mine.
But the thought of her with another man causes something deep in me to wake up. Something ancient and possessive and ugly.
“Get a grip,” I mutter, but the words dissolve as soon as they hit the air.
I’m about to turn back when the sound through the wall changes. It’s sharper now, almost frantic. Her voice cracks, high and pleading.
Something in my chest snaps.
I’m out the door, down the hall, and pounding my fist against her door before my brain catches up to my body.
Three times, loud and hard, like I’m trying to break it down.
My heart’s hammering so loud I barely hear her voice on the other side. The noises have stopped, replaced by a panicked shuffling and then silence.
For the first time all night, I take a breath. It feels like inhaling broken glass.
I lean in, one hand braced on the door frame, the other curled tight at my side.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m expecting, but I know I can’t stand another second of this.
The door swings open with a jolt. I brace for whatever the fuck is coming.
It’s her. But holy shit, she’s a mess. There’s no other word for it.
Hair everywhere, wild and tangled, streaked with the kind of desperation you can’t hide. Her cheeks are blotched red, wet with tears she can’t wipe away fast enough. Her face is wrecked, crumpled up and trembling, like she’s just barely holding it together.
And she’s got a beagle puppy clutched to her chest. I blink several times as my brain attempts to compute what the fuck I’m seeing here. All the anger drains out of me so fast I nearly black out. Relief, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, cuts through me. Fuck. There’s no other man. And I’m not about to let there ever be. It seems like the universe decided to show me the error of my ways.
She looks at me, lips shaking, breath coming in little hiccups. All I can think is, it’s her. And she’s falling apart right in front of me, holding on for dear life.
“Hunter,” she gasps, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake anybody—”
Her words dissolve in a hiccup. The puppy lets out a high-pitched wail, the same one that torched my nerves through the wall. It burrows deeper into her arms, trembling so hard I can see it from two feet away.
I’m still standing there, shirtless and wild-eyed, adrenaline on overdrive with nowhere to go. Iris shuffles her weight, tries to soothe the little furball, but it just whimpers louder, writhing against her like she’s hurting him.
“When did you get a dog?” I blurt, and my voice sounds like I chewed up gravel and spit it out.
“It was an impulsive decision—” She swallows, sets her jaw, and steps aside. “Can you help me?” She says it so quietly I almost miss it.
My feet move before my brain does. Inside, her apartment is… a shock to the system. The air smells like lavender and wet dog, and there are colors everywhere—pillows, throws, a rainbow army of potted succulents lined up along the windowsill and across every flat surface. The coffee table is stacked with books and a battered deck of Uno cards. There’s a Polaroid collage on the fridge, all images of her with other women, grinning and sticky with summer sweat, or just Iris herself with her hair in a messy bun, mouth smeared with frosting.
I stare too long, then blink hard and look down at the puppy.
It’s actually an adorable little shit.
Iris bites her lip. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I read online that if you crate them at night, they’ll adapt, but—”
She’s about to cry again. I can’t handle it.
“Hey.” I hold out my arms like a complete idiot, but she hands me the puppy anyway. The beagle melts into my arms, claws digging in, whimpering in confusion. It’s warm and weightless, all bones and fear. I peek under the animal to confirm it’s a boy before clutching him tight against my chest.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “He’s just a baby. What’s his name?”
“Buster,” she breathes, knuckling away a stray tear. “I suck at this. I’ve only had him for two days, and he already hates me.”