Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, you’re forgiven.”
He pulls me into a big bear hug that makes it feel like my ribs are bending.
“But if he does end up hurting you, I’m probably going to beat his ass.”
I try to jab him in the ribs, but he hugs me tighter.
“I love you, kiddo.”
“I love you, too, even if you’re a pain in my ass.”
RJ drops me off at home late in the afternoon. I’m 100 percent not looking forward to dealing with Joey, which is why I stayed at my brother’s so long. I’d hoped Joey might be inclined to give up, but apparently not. He said he’d be over by four thirty. The only reason I agreed at all is because my suitcase was forwarded to his place, and he promised to bring it with him. He’s already had it for more than two weeks now.
I’m gritty with sweat from playing hockey, and I haven’t washed my hair recently, so it’s nice and greasy. I add an oversize sweatshirt to my dirty-sweats-and-tank ensemble and pull my hair up in an extra-messy bun, highlighting the stringy greasiness. I wash any residual makeup off my face—there wasn’t much to begin with—and do an armpit-sniff test. I’m definitely ripe. I want to be as disgusting as possible for Joey.
At a quarter after four there’s a knock on my door. He’s early. I take a few centering breaths, school my expression so it looks annoyed more than nervous, and open the door. Except it’s not Joey. It’s Bishop.
He, too, is wearing sweats and a T-shirt. The sweats hug his thighs, and the shirt, which has holes in it—not the strategic kind either—pulls tight across his chest. Is there anything this man wears that doesn’t look good on him?
I glance over his shoulder at the elevator, almost expecting Joey to show up at this exact moment.
His gaze sweeps over me, pausing at the text across my chest that reads F THIS S and then lifting to my hair. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Huh?” I did not expect him to say that or for him to look so concerned.
“Are you sick?” He motions to my outfit. “You usually dress differently.”
I look down at my outfit. “Oh. Uh . . . this is on purpose.”
“Oh. Okay.” He shifts from foot to foot like he’s nervous about something. “I, uh . . . I have pizza for you. I thought maybe it would make you less mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m annoyed with the circumstances and the way everyone keeps overreacting.”
“I’m sorry.” He bites his lip. “If you’re not mad anymore, does that mean we can still work on rehab?”
“We can still work on rehab.” I wasn’t clear about that with him last night, mostly because I was fixated on how good he looked in dress pants and also because I needed to get the Joey crap out of the way.
“Great.” He takes a step forward, as if he wants to come in, but I stay where I am, firmly rooted in the center of the doorway.
“Now isn’t the best time, though.”
“Oh. You’re busy?” His gaze moves over me again, his confusion apparent.
It’s understandable: I’m dressed like I’m homeless, not like I have something important to do. “I have this thing, and I can’t get out of it.”
“What kind of thing?”
“I got suckered into volunteering for something for my work.”
“Maybe I could help?” He looks somewhere between hopeful and unsure. It’s almost cute.
“I wish you could, but my stupid-ass ex-boyfriend signed us up for it, and then he invited himself over here to work on it. I’ve been putting him off, but it needs to get done.”
That hopeful expression turns dark. “Wait a second. The asshole who cheated on you is coming here?”
“Yeah. One of my suitcases got misdirected to Alaska when I flew in, and it’s now at his place because that was the forwarding address, so as much as I would rather he not set foot in my personal space, I could really use the rest of my wardrobe.” I rub the space between my eyes where a headache threatens to make my afternoon that much worse. “I need to get this over with. Once he leaves, we can do rehab.”
“How long will he be here?” Now he sounds frustrated, which would make two of us.
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “Hopefully not long, but I’m sure he’ll find a reason to drag it out.” Unless I can find a way to get rid of him. I take in Bishop’s somewhat angry expression. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s the douche ex who’s coming over or because it interferes with his rehab, but I plan to capitalize on it either way. “I have an idea . . . if you want to help shorten his visit.”