Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
His chuckle drips with disdain, and then he shakes his head as if fed up with me. “Get out of my way, Natalie.”
“No. You’re pissing me off.”
Suddenly, he grips my arms in his hands, picks me up off the ground, and pushes me against the wall, out of his way. I jerk away from his hold, only succeeding in ramming my elbow into the wall and wincing at the pain.
“Well now we’re both pissed,” he says, walking away. “So mission accomplished.”
“What do you want with me, Connor?” I ask as he heads up the stairs. “That’s it?! One night?!”
“You’re the one who put parameters on our relationship,” he shouts back as he continues putting distance between us. “You’re the one who wanted one night, and there it was. Hope you enjoyed it.”
Then his door slams and I curse up at the ceiling, wishing it wasn’t too late to throw one of my shoes at his head.
Chapter Thirteen
Connor
Last night was the kind of shitshow I’m unaccustomed to dealing with in my life. Shouting matches aren’t usually how I follow up earth-shattering sex. My recent relationships have followed adult patterns of long-term commitment. I’ve had lazy breakups over wine, a few casual flings that ended amicably and swiftly. Most of the time my feelings are more in danger of freezing than boiling over.
Not with Natalie.
No.
Last night, I lost my temper.
Natalie left me in that study room with my fucking dick in my hand—literally. She bolted, and it had nothing to do with what she said last night. I know because I saw the truth with my own eyes. She has real feelings for me. It’s not just physical attraction. It’s more. I saw that last night—I felt it—and now she knows I know and that’s why she ran.
She told me she was scared of rejection, but there was no need to be scared. I wouldn’t have left her in that room. I would have helped clean her up, wiped her tears, kissed her straight. I would have assured her there was no one outside to catch us, laughed with her while we bolted out of the library and out onto the curb to wave down a passing cab. We wouldn’t have been able to keep our hands off each other on that drive home. I would have wanted her again right away. I barely got a good look at her in the study room, but I would have fixed that gross injustice back at the townhouse. I would have hauled her over my shoulder and carried her upstairs to my room. On that bed, I would have peeled off her dress and worshipped every inch of her from her head to her toes. We wouldn’t have slept. I wouldn’t have let us.
But that’s not how our night went.
The next morning, I’ve slept off the sharp edge of anger, but the low-burning embers are still there in the pit of my stomach. I sit on the side of the bed with my head in my hands and worry about whether or not I should go downstairs. This is her house, not mine. I shouted at her last night and now I feel like I’m encroaching on her space like a guy who doesn’t know how to take a hint. She probably doesn’t want to see me.
I want to see her though.
I always want to see her.
That’s the root of this whole issue.
I tug a hand through my hair and stand up, opening my door so I can head downstairs. With my luck, she’ll be in the kitchen and we can talk this out. I take a step down the stairs and pause when I catch sight of her in the hallway, practically tiptoeing toward the door. She’s in her running clothes, AirPods in, clearly about to make an escape. She unlocks the deadbolt gently, as if not wanting to make a peep. Then she cracks the door a few inches and rushes out, closing it softly behind her.
Well, there’s my answer. I guess we’re not going to talk it out over our morning coffee like adults.
I turn back and head up the stairs, shower, and get dressed. When I’m done, I take myself out for a long breakfast then head over to my house for a meeting with my contractor. We do a walk-through with the designer and the project manager. Everything is coming together. Tile is getting plastered onto walls, grout is getting smeared to blur the edges. It’s a masterpiece I should really care about.
“We’re only two weeks behind schedule, which is actually pretty good, all things considered,” the contractor says with a laugh.
I nod and try to focus when they list off updates, but I can’t seem to give a crap about any of it even though this renovation is the culmination of two years’ worth of planning.