Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I fly up the stairs to Maeve’s place, grateful she’s out at a catering gig so I can hustle quickly. Once inside, I grab my suitcase—pre-packed this morning, just in case. Then, I rush to the bathroom to check the shower—which I won’t miss. Then the vanity.
All good. I didn’t leave anything behind. I’m ready to go. I text Maeve on my way to the door.
Josie: I love you madly, and I am so, so, so grateful you let me stay here for the week! Also, we’re going to need a major debrief tomorrow. Like the biggest debrief of all time. For tonight, I am heading to…
Josie: Wait. I think I’ll make you guess!
Maeve: Admit it—you love that I track you.
Josie: You weirdo.
Maeve: Um, check your weirdness at the door, girl who left on her tracker for five days. Anyway, can’t wait for the debrief.
I do like the tracking. Maybe because no one cared that much about my whereabouts when I was younger. I still haven’t turned it off.
I grab the doorknob but my gaze catches on Prick. After snagging the cactus I named, I hold it gingerly then head downstairs, lugging my suitcase, and avoiding the wobbly step. Won’t miss that either. When I hit the first floor, I march as fast as I can to the door. Wesley’s leaning against the car, looking relaxed and, well, climbable.
Shame.
He’s wearing his post-game suit, which I appreciated far too much during our dinner. But he’s shed the jacket already, so now he’s lounging against the car in tailored burgundy slacks that hug his strong legs, a creme button-down and no tie. The cuffs of his sleeves are rolled up, revealing a hint of ink on his forearms—the line drawing of the dog and the edge of a music note.
He’s holding his phone in his hand, listening to music presumably, giving me a few seconds to think about the real weirdness.
I’m going to live platonically with the guy I tried desperately to see again. Hell, I implored Frieda the Witch for his last name. She might have even told him I practically begged, bribed, and bought art for that last name. But I’ll deal with that another time. For now, I have a place to stay, and so what if it’s with a man who saw me naked once?
Wesley clearly just wanted a one-night stand, and that’s fine with me. I wanted the same with him. Well, I did at the time. But it’s not like I’m going to let on to him that I wanted more once it was over. He might think I’m clingy or worse—a stalker. Trying to track him down again at an art gallery is kind of a lot. My stomach churns at the memory from last night.
When Wesley makes eye contact with me, he hits stop, then pops out his earbuds and sets them in his pocket as he trots up the steps to grab my suitcase. “Let me help.”
“Thanks,” I say brightly, shifting into Super Roomie mode as he hoists my luggage easily into the car even though it weighs fifty metric tons. Once he’s shut the trunk, I thrust the cactus at him. “Here you go! I got you a housewarming thank you present.”
His brow pinches. “Already?”
“Well, Christian said he’d find me a place,” I say, then I want to kick myself. I’m re-gifting the plant to a guy who’s been generous enough to open his home to me. Real classy. “But it’s okay. I can get you something else. What do you like? I mean, besides ice cream and records?”
And giving me orgasms.
“Plants are cool,” he says, but it’s like I’ve handed him a baby when he’s never taken care of one.
“They don’t need much. It’s a bunny cactus. Just a little water. I call it Prick though. Since it attacked my chest last night. Made me bleed,” I say, and wow, what a great gift, girl.
His lips twitch. “Prick?”
I wince. “I’ll get some ice cream tomorrow.”
He curls his hand around the little terracotta pot, shaking his head. “Prick is perfect.”
He sets it gently on the floor of the backseat, then holds my door open for me. Once inside, a new reality hits me as he starts the car and eases into traffic. “I don’t have anything besides my clothes and books. You said you had sheets, but do I need to get anything else? Towels? Toilet paper? Hangers?” I wave a hand. “I’ll just go to Target tomorrow. I can take the bus.”
As he buckles in, he smiles, the confident, in-control kind of grin he gave me the other night. “Josie, it’s furnished. And I have all those things already.”
Of course it is. “Right, right,” I say. “The decorator. You mentioned a decorator.”
He scratches his jaw. “Decorating’s not my thing.”
What is your thing? Besides saving half-naked women with clothes and now saving fully-clothed women with homes?