Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Not being able to keep the house my parents gave to me, probably out of pity, seems like a greater failure than being unsuccessful with my catering business.
"I have an offer for you," he says instead of feeding into my irritation. "One that would help you postpone, if not altogether eliminate, your need to sell your house."
"I didn't tell you what was going on in my life because I wanted you to come up with a plan to fix it. I was just commiserating with you because of your own struggles," I mutter, suddenly feeling too damned tired to even have this conversation with him. "Why do men think they need to fix shit that doesn't pertain to them?"
His jaw ticks as he stands there staring at me, and I couldn't care less if he's irritated with me. I don't need to be rescued.
"Are you done?" he asks after a long beat of silence.
I cross my arms over my chest, doing my best to ignore the way his eyes drop to my breasts before lifting back up to meet mine.
"Maybe try not to be a hero all the time," I say as I grip the door and shove it forward.
His boot stops it before it can close in his face, and I glare down at the offensive thing as the bridge of my nose burns with the threat of tears. I'm too in my own head right now to deal with this shit without crying, and he already showed up the other night, interrupting my tears. I'm usually a stronger person than this, but I'd rather live inside of my pity party alone than have witnesses to it.
"Riley," he growls, his grumble heavy and full of gravel. "Would you stop?"
"Would you just go away? Why do you keep showing up here?" I ask, my hand still on the door while I wait for him to be distracted enough to pull his foot back so I can slam the damn thing in his face.
"I hate the hotel," he says as if it explains everything.
"Sorry. That must suck for you."
"I haven't had a good night's sleep since you practically burned my house down."
"Are you serious?" I snap, feeling like a fool for thinking he'd gotten over that at least enough to be civil to me instead of pointing fingers as if he has no blame in the matter.
"I slept really good in your bed the other night."
"Oh!" I say in an exaggerated tone. "So that's what this is about? Word to the wise, when you want to fuck someone lead with flirting maybe rather than being a giant asshole."
The door nearly flies back and hits me in the face when I attempt to slam it once again, but of course, his hand is there to stop it.
The grin on his face makes me want to get the bat out from the hallway closet that I use to scare off the family of raccoons who love to dine on my garbage late at night.
"Fuck no. I'm not here to sleep with you again," he says, and I do my best to stand tall rather than let my shoulders slump because it feels like an insult. "I'm not explaining this well at all."
"If your goal is to hurt my feelings, you're doing a bang-up job."
"I want to rent your guest bedroom."
That sentence stops the next round of insults that were forming in my mouth. "What?"
"But only if you switch out the beds."
I shake my head, rejecting the idea fully.
"I'll pay you rent, the exact amount I'd pay if I were still at the hotel."
Those words make me clamp my mouth fully closed. What does a night at one of the hotels out on the highway run? A hundred dollars a night? That's enough to keep me afloat and put money back for the months well after he leaves, but it also feels like I'd be swindling him.
Can you swindle someone when it's what they're offering?
"That's insane," is what I settle on instead. "What does the hotel run? A hundred a night."
"One seventeen thirty-four with taxes," he clarifies. "A night."
"They don't offer weekly or monthly rates."
"No," he says. "They don't. I won't get in your way. You won't even know I'm here."
That's so far from the truth, it's comical.
"I'm having a hard time focusing at work. I'm snapping at my crew. The twins threatened to walk off the job today if I didn't, and I quote, 'stop being such a bitch.'"
I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. It's not that I take joy in his troubles, but I'm still not a hundred percent over the fact that he told everyone in the bar within hearing distance that sex with me was bad. To make it worse, old man Hinkle thought it would be appropriate to chastise me at the post office for even having premarital sex in the first place when I was there sending a birthday package to my niece.