Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Hell, I’d love to be wrong.
I’d love for him to already be waiting in the lobby, ask me what took so long, and then hold my hand while walking me to my car underneath the moonlight with sounds of Evanescence playing in the background.
The elevator doors loudly ding as if thumping me in the forehead to get my shit together.
There’s no way in hell that scenario is happening, much like Slater standing on my townhouse porch, in the soaking rain, telling me some 80s movie cliché like “it’s always been you”.
Ugh.
Sometimes I hate how much I love those movies, although I primarily blame my condition for it.
See, they start speaking and rainbows of colors just burst through the air and flutter downward, entrancing me.
Hypnotizing me.
Imprisoning me in warmth until I’m paralyzed by passion.
The same thing happens to me with certain music.
Sometimes those colors lift me to my feet and spin me in circles that leave me breathless and grinning like a lunatic.
Which is the real reason why I’m usually gasping for air when people randomly knock on my office door, not because I was trying to squeeze in a Pilates workout on my lunch hour.
“Evening, Miss Carmichael,” Valentine Yi, the guard patrolling the lobby, pleasantly greets.
“Hey, Yi.” Tucking my phone into my jacket pocket occurs enroute towards him. “How are you?”
“Convinced that Hollander is eating my lunch every day.” His cut jaw ticks in iteration. “That asshole has no respect for the rules of the fridge or the sanctity of marriage.”
There’s no stopping my head from tilting in confusion over the latter.
“No matter how busy she is with the kids or how crazy things are at the hospital, my wife always makes time to pack me a lunch. She even leaves me a dirty little love note inside that I have the sneaking suspicion he also violates much like he does my meal.”
Amusement over his wavy maroon words threatens to overthrow my expression prompting me to press my lips firmly together.
“I told HR and a mandatory must read and sign memo was sent out to the entire department.” Yi viciously smirks. “Meaning after this week, they can fire that shithead the next time he even thinks about going after my tteokbokki.”
“Not entirely sure that that’s what that means.”
Yi snickers and presents me with a playful shoulder shrug. “Close enough.” Small chuckles are accompanied by me reaching the door he’s now opening. “Would you like me to escort you to your vehicle?”
“Nah.” I casually brush off while giving my bag another adjustment. “We both know it’s not a far walk. Perks of having your own parking space in executive parking.”
“True.” A crooked grin crosses his lips. “However, it’s still part of my job to offer. And then a bigger part of my job to insist. So, despite knowing what you’re going to say, I’m going to repeat the offer. Miss Carmicheal, would you like me to escort you to your vehicle?”
“I’m good, Yi. Really.” Giving him a small wave goodbye occurs next. “Just try not to get fired over food. I like you too much to see you go out like that.”
“He really shouldn’t be eating my shit,” Yi calls out after me, maroon letters bouncing against my back.
It’s a short stroll across the courtyard to the reserved parking area and passing by the intricate fountains that are merely status symbols reflecting the wealth inside of the building on the outside causes me to unconsciously sneer.
These eyesores were Harv’s idea.
One he – to this day – prides himself on like he carved the marble monstrosities himself.
God, if only he had.
His whole preference to pay someone to work with their hands rather than ever get his dirty thing wasn’t one of my favorites.
Slater loves to get dirty.
And sweaty.
And messy.
And build as well as break shit with his own fingers.
I swear sometimes he makes me feel like Sandra Bullock in Hope Floats when he gets to fixing things that have “come loose” at my house.
Upon approaching my vehicle, I retrieve my keys from the same pocket I placed my cell in and prepare to hit the unlock button when something is suddenly wrapped around my neck from behind. The initial yank not only snaps my head backward, it cuts short my oxygen supply. Panic attempts to assist in immobilizing me as the hold tightens yet a southern voice, I know I’d be lost without faintly whispers in the back of my mind one critical acronym.
SING.
Driving my elbow straight has it meeting the first point of contact intended. While the attacker’s breath slightly hitches from the strike, they unfortunately manage to maintain their grip on whatever’s digging into my throat. Knowing my life depends on my refusal to give up, I execute the next move, stomping my foot on top of theirs with all the force I can muster up around our thrashing. Missing my intended target again and again and again promptly wears on my resolve, tempting me into accepting defeat.