Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
I needed this morning run with Cal like I needed a second tailbone.
Only reason I did it was so I could have an excuse to spend one-on-one time with her. My patience and virtue had paid off, because this morning, I’d had my dick inside her mouth and my pinky up her ass. Blood rushed to my dick just thinking about the things I was going to do to this woman. I was going to live inside that pussy every waking moment until I had to pay fucking rent.
Too bad now that I’d had a taste, there was no way I was ever going to settle for just another meaningless, faceless hookup. She was exquisite, and she was all fucking mine.
“You look happy.” Rhy eyed me accusingly when I walked into my upstairs office at Descartes, his pen still hovering over his bookkeeping ledger.
“Is that a crime?” I slid a bottle of beer across the desk and took a pull of mine. We opened service in two hours, which meant that Cal wouldn’t be here for another hour and a half. Not that I was keeping tabs or anything.
“Depends on what lifted your mood.” Rhy sipped his beer, lounging back. “Is Kieran dead?”
“Alive as far as I know, much to my chagrin.” I fell into the chair opposite him, crossing my ankles over the desk—and his ledger. “How’re the numbers lookin’?”
“Great. Insane profit margin. But selling the land was the right thing. This place is fucking toxic after the bullshit Allison pulled on us.”
If I’m selling. I’d been blue-balling Tate Blackthorn for weeks now. It was like ignoring a tumorous growth, though. I needed to sign on the dotted line if I wanted him to release the funds for my new restaurant and the new mortgages I’d taken on. Blackthorn was right—I was in no position to fuck around and find out.
“Toxicity is where I thrive, so no complaints there.” I shrugged.
“Don’t change the subject. What’s with the perpetual smile?” Rhy frowned. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain green-haired girl, would it?”
“Her tips are red now,” I informed him. “And I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You don’t have to. Your dumbass smile told me the entire story, including the graphic details. Shit, dude, the ass too?” He uncrossed his legs and put them down.
I stomped his foot under the desk, and he let out an agonized yelp. “Watch your mouth when you talk about this woman.” How could I let her walk away? More importantly, how could I make sure she didn’t run off? Calla was so good at running off.
“Does she know how you feel yet?” Rhy accepted his beer, tipping it over his lips and taking a big drink.
Hard no. If she knew how I felt, she’d sprint to the fucking hills. She loved New York. Loved her independence. Loved being alone.
Any hope I entertained about her developing feelings for me in the process was bound to kill me faster than the smoking habit she hated so much.
There was a knock on the office door. He pushed up to his feet, downing the beer and slam-dunking it into the trash.
“Pissed off with this town? Yeah,” I said.
“In love with every cell in her body.” He advanced toward the door.
“I’m not in love with her,” I murmured into my drink.
Rhyland stopped with his hand on the doorknob, cocking a brow. “Cut the bullshit. What are you, five?” Another, sterner knock. “Just remember she has ten tons of baggage. Her anxiety issues always stand in her way, and I doubt she can form any sort of serious relationship with anyone, even you.”
“What the hell does that mean, even me?”
“Even someone who’d accept her exactly as she is—flawed to the core—and won’t ask her to change.”
Damn straight. Her flaws were some of her best features. Protective anger simmered inside of me. I was about to give him a piece of my mind when he opened the door. Kieran stood on the other side.
The universe must’ve picked up on my good mood and decided to shit all over it. The bastard waltzed in, looking like a trillion bucks with his stupid peacoat and even stupider smile, and a nose that—unbelievably—did make him look more ruggedly handsome. Young Clint Eastwood looked like a dumpster fire next to Fuckface.
“Hey, man.” Rhy and Kieran exchanged a handshake and a bro hug. “I’ll leave you two to kill each other.” Rhy exited the office. I kicked the floor to turn around on my executive chair, narrowing my eyes at Rhy as he added, “Just watch the carpet. Been meaning to take it with me to New York when we close this place up.”
“Fuckface,” I said.
“Asshole,” Kieran replied.
“What heinous crime have I committed in a previous life to deserve this social call?” I picked up a cigarette, rolling it between my fingers.