Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Anyway, that was over a week ago.
I’m fine now, didn’t need many stitches, and in a few weeks, I can wear the new scar as a badge of honor. Yes, bitch.
My sisters and Jeremy don’t agree about how I view the whole incident, but who gives a fuck. I’m alive.
I’m fine.
Or I was. Until I found out a tragic fact that I’d been blind to see this whole time.
My baby sister Mia is apparently friends with Bran.
Friends.
Why the fuck would he be friends with my sister? Unless he has an ulterior motive and is using her for another diabolical plan by his fucking brother or his whole fucked-up family.
He didn’t even visit me in the hospital.
Not that I’m butthurt about that or thinking about it on a daily basis or anything equally crazy.
We’re done.
Yeah, right. You haven’t moved on a fucking inch.
I could swear I heard his voice when I was sleeping and even saw him sitting in the chair beside my hospital bed and felt him stroking my hair. But then again, I’ve often been delusional when it comes to him.
Sometimes, I pictured him walking out from the penthouse elevator.
Other times, I imagined he came up to kiss me in public.
The few times I fell into a deep sleep, I dreamed of his heartfelt smiles, erotic noises, and his head on my thigh.
He invaded my every waking and sleeping moment.
The harder I pushed my mind to forget him, the more persistently he haunted me. Oftentimes, I found myself in the penthouse just to be able to smell him or see his shadow in the kitchen fixing God knows what.
But I was fine. Fucking perfect. Except for bugging Jer to give me problems to solve and being at the fight club on a daily basis, everything else was awesome.
I don’t deal with complications, so removing the major complication from my life was the most logical decision I’d ever made. I was proud of myself for making that choice. For extracting the tumor that was growing inside me. I no longer had to deal with his grouchy presence, his push-and-pull games, and his stupid mixed signals.
There was just his pesky fucking ghost that followed me everywhere and wouldn’t leave me alone, but I was handling it.
I was fucking okay.
Until he sent me that goddamn text.
Just like that, the thin layer of ice I’d surrounded myself with melted away.
The asshole was right. I can’t stay away from him.
I can force myself away, I can try to be the very thing I’m not—logical—but then I’ll stalk him on social media and sometimes in real life.
From the shadows, like a motherfucking creep.
Now is one of those times.
I lean against my Harley, arms crossed and helmet on. I’m even wearing a leather jacket to be anonymous.
My gaze is on an NGO’s building. This is his favorite charity—the one that organizes marathons and performs volunteer work around the island.
Naturally, Bran is one of their top volunteers since he has that kink for running.
What I love about this building is that the windows are large and I can see what’s going on inside, even if I’m across the street pretending to be having coffee. I haven’t touched the cup since I bought it, considering the helmet and all.
My eyes track Bran’s movements as he carries some chairs to the other side of a giant hall and smiles at something his colleague, a rosy-cheeked curvy brunette, says.
It’s his golden-boy smile, not exactly fake, but it’s not genuine, either. He’s mostly polite as he listens to her blabbering on and on like a fucking chatterbox.
He better stop smiling at her or she’ll do a fast climb to the top of my shit list.
Would she stop fucking talking already?
I need to chill for one second, because we’re not even together anymore.
Not that we were before.
He says something to his male colleague, and I also think about ways to make him die in his sleep, but the guy is not the problem. He mostly seems to engage in the conversation politely like most British people do.
The brunette, however, keeps following Bran from one end of the room to the other, buzzing around him like an annoying fucking bee.
She’s obviously flirting—her eyes are droopy and she keeps twirling her hair and giggling like a fucking schoolgirl. Bran’s body language never changes, though. He’s smiling, yes, but he’s in complete control of the situation.
I know exactly what he looks like when he’s interested, and the girl isn’t getting anything. Not a flaring of his nostrils, a bobbing of his Adam’s apple, or even continuous eye contact.
Either he’s too oblivious to her attempts at catching his attention or he doesn’t care.
Now, it’d be interesting if it was the second option—
She places her hand on his arm and I narrow my eyes. If she doesn’t remove it, that hand will be broken into fucking pieces.