Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Because I’m cheap?”
“That’s not what I meant. Holy macaroni. Why do you have so much pasta in this cabinet?”
“Another habit I’ll never get over.” The cabinet door closes, and the fridge opens. “Hey, Sosie?”
“Yeah?” The sound of water filling the glasses is heard before I look back.
I ask, “What happened to us?”
She pauses with the pitcher in hand, looking at me from across the room. Without more than two seconds passing, she says, “We were running on a timer neither of us knew existed.”
“Timing is everything.” I frown, wanting to ask more, but I’m hesitant to ruin the ease that has trickled between us. I can ask more later, but I hate that I don’t seem to have a say when it comes to my relationship with her. Neither does she. We’re just victims of karma, fate, and the universe toying with our lives.
Looking like she belongs here, she returns to sit next to me and hands me a glass of water. “I don’t know if you believe me or not, but I feel the need to tell you that I never said yes to him.” Her eyes always tell the truth, and there isn’t a lie in sight. “I didn’t say anything at all.”
I stare at her, finally admitting to myself that I’ve loved her without reason for so long that it was hard to separate fantasy from reality sometimes. But now I see. Now I know. I’ve always known the reason. It just wasn’t clear before.
We’re not meant for anyone else.
CHAPTER 19
SOSIE
“Ten thirty,” Keats says, lowering his wrist back to his lap. That damn invisible timer is still counting down. I hate the undue pressure it puts on every minute we spend together.
I turn my body, putting my head back on the armrest of the couch. Instead of keeping my knees crimped, I stretch my legs out and rest my feet on Keats’s lap. “Not quite Christmas,” I reply. Looking around, I notice a lack of decor—clean surfaces and empty countertops. There’s a lack of knickknacks and none of the warmth his other apartment had. My Poet’s personality isn’t seen anywhere in here. “No decorations this year?”
“Some.”
I sit up and take a look at the other side of the room. It’s barren of decor but not in style. I love his choices in palette and calming neutrals, but it’s missing the pieces of him that make an apartment a home. Flopping back down, I ask, “Where?”
“I’ll show you later.” Slipping one of my heels off and then the other, he bends to set them on the floor before sitting back again like it’s just a regular ole night of us hanging out. I feel every breath I take and my heart beating in my chest. But sure, this is normal . . . not one bit.
“Those shoes were killing me.” Grinning from relief and too curious to let this go, I prod for more. “Are they secret decorations?”
He chuckles, resting his hands on my ankles. The heat expands through my entire body. “Not a secret. I just like sitting here with you.” Wrapping his hand around one foot, he begins rubbing as if it’s his job to do.
I’m not going to interrupt the man from giving me a foot rub, but my mind spins with possibilities of where he’s hidden some holiday decorations, and honestly, where a foot rub leads to next. “That feels really good.” I win another smile out of him. They’ve been coming more frequently since we arrived at his apartment. His guard is down, and the tension that had been holding his shoulders up earlier has dissipated. It’s impossible not to find this man incredibly handsome, but when he gives me a smile that feels like it was created just for me, I’m reminded of how easy it was to fall for him the first time.
He has me appreciating these quieter moments we’re sharing. There’s no hurrying through the streets to one part of town or the other like our first night together, and no mystery to who the other person is, though there’s still so much to learn about each other. There’s an ease to being with him that could become addictive if I’m not careful. Since I don’t even know where I’ll be living tomorrow—London, Paris, or Los Angeles, somewhere tropical, or even exploring the Amazon jungle—I should be more cautious getting too close. There’s just something magnetic about Keats Matthews that draws me to him every time.
He was forbidden for so long that I thought I’d trained myself to keep my distance. I never stopped by his apartment again. No texts. No calls. Still blocked as I had to that night despite what my heart was trying to convince me to do otherwise. I fell victim to the circumstance, but I can’t pretend I’m not the one who directly hurt him. No matter what the real reason is behind my actions.