Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
I open my inbox. I shouldn’t have. Three emails are staring at me, two from David, and one from Amy Petitt. My ex-boyfriend and my ex-best friend. Fuckers. I hover over the open icon, my mind whizzing with what these emails could possibly say. It’ll be nothing I haven’t already heard or read. They’ll be full of apologies and excuses. But what do either of them hope to gain? Peace? Forgiveness? And does David seriously think I’d take him back?
I grab the screen of my laptop and slam it shut. Whatever. I’m not interested. I don’t need their apologies, and I’m certainly not interested in easing their guilt for them, or getting back with David.
Any person who can call themselves a friend or boyfriend and cheat is not someone I want in my life. I deserve more. I’m no longer desperate for morsels of love. What’s done is done.
My mental annihilation of David and Amy is cut short when a light knock at my door distracts me, and I jump up, not giving too much thought to who it could be.
Until I swing it open, and I’m confronted with Becker Hunt.
My blank mind gives me no heads-up on what I should say, so I wind up just staring at him like an idiot. And he stares right back, his eyes vacant behind his glasses, obviously no right words coming to him either. An invisible protective shield flies up around me, and after a long period of silence – our eyes the only connection – his potency wins, penetrating my defences, and the shield shatters. My eyes plummet to my bare feet as a result, and I fold in on myself, searching for words.
Becker finds some first. ‘You’re late for work.’
I give myself whiplash when my head shoots up in shock. ‘Pardon?’
He slowly pulls up the sleeve of his jacket a little, looking down at his watch, a gorgeous antique Rolex. His leisurely move gives me a fleeting moment to skate my annoyingly greedy eyes down the length of him. He has jeans on, lovely fitted jeans that hug his thighs in all the right places, and a navy suit jacket over a pale blue shirt. ‘It’s nine forty.’ He speaks with an even, business like tone, releasing his sleeve as he looks up at me, catching me in the act of admiring him. But when I would expect him to give me a cocky, knowing look, all I get is a straight face instead. It’s silly for me to feel injured by his indifference, I realise that, yet I can’t deny the hurt is there. If I didn’t still have the evidence of our encounter stinging my arse, I’d think I dreamed it. ‘You’re late,’ he repeats. ‘Mrs Potts is worried.’
‘I quit,’ I remind him, raising my chin in an act of equal indifference. It doesn’t matter that it’s fake.
His jaw tightens. ‘I didn’t accept your resignation.’
‘I didn’t resign.’ My body begins to heat up, and it isn’t with desire. ‘And I believe you yelled “good” a second after I quit, Mr Hunt.’
His face twists in annoyance, his head dropping back in exasperation. I wish he wouldn’t do that. His stubble is the perfect length on his taut throat, begging for me stroke it. My own face twists too, and I struggle to grab control of my traitorous mind and stop it from wandering to forbidden places. I can’t. Now he’s flesh and blood and standing right in front of me, the memories are like a tidal wave, crashing over me relentlessly. His chest, his mouth, his power. Oh, flipping heck. In a panic, I grab the door and violently throw my weight behind it, waiting for the loud bang to ricochet around my apartment, except that loud bang doesn’t come. Well, it does, but it’s delayed. Becker pushes his way past the door and puts my forceful attempts to shame. I jump back when the wood hits the frame, but quickly gather myself, ready to blast him with my viper tongue. I just about manage to load my lungs with air, ready to fire, when he tackles me around the waist, flipping me up on to his shoulder.
‘What the fuck, Becker?’ I yell, brushing my hair from my face. ‘Get your filthy hands off me.’
‘Shut up, princess,’ he snaps, striding into my bathroom and reaching to turn on the shower.
‘Don’t call me princess.’ I thump his back in my temper, ignoring my brain when it reminds me I didn’t complain last night when he used the irritating pet name.
‘I said, shut up.’ He dumps me on my feet and grabs my hair on either side of my temples, getting way too close for comfort. If he didn’t look so aggravated, I would think he was moving in for a kiss.