Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
After I got ready, I left my place and made a couple of stops before getting on the train to Wesley’s. When I reach the steps in front of his apartment, I look around to make sure the coast is clear before taking the stairs down to his door. I drop my purse on the bottom step, and I get out the note I wrote, the prepaid envelope I just bought, and some clear packing tape. I unroll a section of tape, press the envelope and note to the door, then tape across the top of them. Realizing I have to use my teeth to rip the tape because I don’t have scissors, I get up on my tiptoes to bite it. It’s too high for me to reach with my mouth. As I start to pull the envelope from the door, the roll of tape falls from my grasp and hits the ground, then rolls away from me.
“Dammit!” I hiss as it wraps around itself and my hand. Ripping the envelope off the door, I try to untangle myself from the mess of clear packing tape, cringing at the obnoxious noise it makes.
“Do you need some help?”
“Shit!” I shout as I spin around.
When I look up, my eyes meet Wesley’s. He’s more gorgeous than I remember. He also looks slightly annoyed, with his arms crossed over his massive chest and his blue eyes locked on me.
“You’re here . . . ,” I say like an idiot, feeling my face get hot.
“I live here.” He lifts his chin toward the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I was just in the neighborhood,” I lie while wrapping the tape into a ball around the roll in my hands.
Moving his eyes from my face to the roll of tape in my hands, he asks, “What were you doing?”
“I was . . .” My words taper off as he drops his eyes to the ground. He bends down to pick up the note I was going to leave him.
Wesley, sorry I missed you. I think I left my phone behind when we hung out. Can you put it in the envelope and drop it in the nearest mailbox?
Thank you, Mackenzie
He reads it aloud. My cheeks, which were already hot, burn hotter as he lifts his head to look at me.
“Did you ring the bell?” he asks.
I look at the door behind me, then back at him.
“Bell?”
“The doorbell—did you ring it?”
“Um . . .”
“It’s hooked up to my cell phone, so when someone rings the bell, my phone rings.”
“Maybe it’s broken?” I suggest lamely, tipping my head to the side and hoping I look innocent.
He takes two steps down, presses the button, and his phone chimes immediately.
Darn it.
“Doesn’t seem broken to me.” He turns around to face me, his huge body making the small alcove we’re in seem even smaller.
Knowing I don’t have a good excuse, I keep my mouth closed. My eyes widen involuntarily as he closes the minute distance between us with his eyes locked on mine.
“Wesley . . . ,” I breathe when his familiar scent fills my lugs. His warmth seems to wrap around me even though he doesn’t touch me.
“You slipped out on me. Why?” The question is soft, but there is no mistaking the annoyance and frustration in his voice or his eyes as he waits for my answer.
I won’t be giving him an honest answer, because saying why I left the way I did out loud would be ridiculous now that I’m standing in front of him.
“I . . . fuck”—he rips his hand through his hair—“I can’t believe you just took off without a word.”
My eyes close briefly. I open my mouth to say something, anything.
Before I can, he cuts me off with a shake of his head and a sharp “Never mind.”
Turning his back to me, he opens the door and goes inside. I swallow the mass of emotions I’m feeling as I stand in the open doorway, wondering what I should do next. Pulling in a much-needed breath, I shove the ball of tape into my bag and pick it up before moving into his apartment. I didn’t really stop to look around the last time I was here. Seeing it now, I realize I didn’t miss out on much. The kitchen is small, with only a round table and two chairs in the middle of it. In the living room, there is a row of boxes stacked up against the wall, a big comfortable-looking gray couch, and a large TV on a plain black stand. The whole space is empty of anything personal—there are no pictures or anything else to make it homey. I wonder if they are in the boxes still to be unpacked.
“Here,” he rumbles, holding out my phone.