Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Ben stepped closer and grabbed one of the tubs, and he checked the label. “It literally states fifty servings, Trace. You need six of them.”
Oh. I scowled. How the fuck was I supposed to know?
I started filling the cart. “Thank you.”
He chuckled and draped an arm around my shoulders. “You’re cute, you know that?”
Oh, hell fucking no. I straightened in an instant as a bolt of…something…shot through me, stripped me of all filters, and let the bruised ego out to play.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I told him. “You’re welcome to stay with me and be my friend, but you don’t get to cozy up with me like this and call me cute unless it comes with a big side of dick. Are we clear?”
Aside from a second-long flash of surprise when his eyebrows hitched, he remained his frustratingly unreadable self—and he stayed close too. He kept his arm around me. He maintained eye contact.
“Is that what you want? A big side of dick?”
Hnnghff.
His voice in that low tone robbed me of most of my fight as a violent shiver rolled through me.
I swallowed dryly. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yeah. I am, Trace.” He let his arm drop and positioned himself right in front of me instead, and he was essentially towering over me. “When were you forthcoming about wanting anything other than friendship? How am I supposed to know what you want when you’ve been distant all week?”
I opened my mouth to let my anger out, but it was shoved back when my brain replayed the question. You’ve been distant all week. Fuck. Oh fuck. How am I supposed to know what you want? Motherfucker. I’d been so cooped up in my head, and I was acting as if he could read my fucking mind. Jesus Christ. Cue mortification.
It wasn’t only this week either. Other than the night we’d fucked back in January… I hadn’t shown my interest in the slightest.
So, uh…maybe I had sharing problems too…?
Maybe.
“I’ve only held back to give you space to settle into your new routines,” was my weak defense.
He huffed under his breath and eased back. “How kind of you. But I can multitask.” He nodded up the aisle. “Come on. Tell me what’s next on your list. And then we can talk about your taste in men.”
Excuse me? “What’s wrong with my taste?”
“You can start with raising your fucking standards,” he told me. “You want a quick fuck? Say the word. I’m fairly confident I can deliver. But you gotta learn to aim higher. You deserve more than—”
“Okay, you can stop.” I was done. I was so goddamn done that I felt dead inside. Zero emotion, including anger and annoyance. If he was gonna circle back to that again, like he’d done in his stupid letter, I didn’t wanna hear it.
Friends, it was.
Fuck him.
I stuck the key in the ignition and rested my forehead against the wheel.
What was wrong with me?
I’d fucking told myself not to make decisions on his behalf, and here I was, pushing the kid away because I was so certain he didn’t know what he was getting himself into. And he didn’t. He really didn’t. But that wasn’t all on him. I wasn’t even giving him a chance.
This was better in the long run, though. I needed stability and people who stayed in my life, and I could think of a million ways I’d fuck up a relationship because I couldn’t be a good partner. I had to focus on my son, on getting him and Ma out of that apartment. I had to save up money. I had to work.
A friendship was easier to maintain. Trace wouldn’t have the same demands, and I’d hopefully have him in my life for as long as I breathed. Because that was where I’d landed. He had to be a permanent fixture.
I didn’t even know what he wanted. I just picked up on our chemistry every single day, and it fucking killed me, because there wasn’t a chance in hell we’d ever be on the same page. He was young, driven to go further with the Clover, passionate about the projects that helped people, and…he had a more “fuck it, let’s see what happens” attitude. I didn’t. I couldn’t afford that. For one, I’d already screwed myself over by being halfway in love with the little shit. For two, Alvin.
I wanted them to meet. I wanted to coax Alvin out of hiding and eventually find comfort in a social setting with people he liked, and I knew he was going to like Trace. Which made it all the more important to keep the pressure off so I didn’t do something that sent Trace running.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Trace Kalecki
“I remember when you were fun, babe,” Eric slurred lazily. His head lolled back against the couch, and I eyed the mess all around. Two dudes were lost in their highs on the floor. Pizza boxes, empty bottles, fucking needles, and tinfoil.