Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I shouldn’t be looking at him how I am, but cut me some slack. I haven’t handled a man as handsome as him since I visited my aunt Bec in Florence.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks before pushing off his feet and entering my room without permission.
Even his lower two abs move in sync with their bigger counterparts.
Bah humbug!
Since I remain quiet, the tic hitting Christian’s jaw, even with it covered with wiry hair, can’t be missed. He’s as frustrated as me, but it appears as if not all his agitations center on our exchanges.
His grunts have rolled down the hallway nonstop over the past two hours, and he punished the keys of his keyboard like a hacker would while attempting a worldwide takeover.
“I—”
I cut him off, too desperate for answers to act cordial. “Why do you do what you do? Other than for profit, what benefit do you get for kicking people out of their homes?”
His sigh is silent, but I still feel its rustles. “My work isn’t about profit. I—”
I “ha” in his face, cutting him off again.
“It’s not about money,” he argues, his tone stronger and more determined. “It is the opposite. A large chunk of every penny I earn goes to charities for homeless and disadvantaged youths.”
I stare at him as if he suddenly morphed into the fat man in a red suit, too stunned by the sheer honesty in his tone to speak. Though not too hormonal. “If only I were ten years younger.”
I roll my eyes before scooting off my bed. Christian stops my exit from the room by mumbling, “I didn’t come here to spark an argument.”
“I think we’ve already established the reason for you being here, Christian.”
His eye roll is as immature as mine. “Not here here. Your room. I didn’t come to your room to argue.” Before my head can consider any of the stupid thoughts of my heart, I continue for the door, forcing him to speak faster. “I came about the invitation on the kitchen counter.”
He follows me out of the room when my anger that I’m missing out on a potential party of the century because he helps people by hurting others has me needing distance between his infamous gray sweatpants and me.
“I think you should go.” When I hit him with a riled look, his chest puffs out before he corrects, “I think we should go. Together.” Again, I am too shocked to speak, lumping the task onto Christian. “This event is huge. It is all over every social media app. Even TMZ is camped in the foyer, awaiting the sleuth of A-list celebrities lucky enough to get an invite.” I scoff when he stammers, “Yet you’re going to let the opportunity abscond you because you’d rather me believe the heat of your stares is because you hate me.”
“I do hate you,” I lie.
Whoever inserted a lie detector machine in his head should be shot. His smile is the cockiest to date, and it has me desperate to check the thermostat. It’s damn hot in here. “You don’t, but even if you did, I reckon you can suck up your issues for one night if it is for a good cause.” He flops his head to the side, highlighting the horrid patch job the peroxide did to his hair under the antique lighting. “That’s why you told Mrs. Roach I’d play Santa at the street fair tomorrow afternoon, right? Because although you hate Christmas, you refuse to lump your dislike onto anyone under thirteen.”
He hits the nail on the head, but I act as if the hammer didn’t get close to its mark. “I volunteered you for the role because Tommy Little from apartment 2C hasn’t grasped toilet training yet.” I match his cutesy head slant. “He pees when excited.” As I continue down the hall, I add, “I’d rather pee when nervous than poop my pants like the toothless terror in 17D. Jace is only three, but he eats like a Viking, so there’s nothing babyish about what his stinky backside expels into his training pants multiple times a day.” I flash him a quick smile. “He can’t wait to sit on Santa’s lap.”
A snippet of disappointment crashes down on me. I’m not upset for myself. It is wondering how Jace, Tommy, and the other thirty or so children from the building will feel when Santa fails to show up tomorrow afternoon. They didn’t enter my thoughts until Ryan suggested Christian not leave my apartment unless he wants to be evicted.
His time at the Christmas fair was when I had intended to change the locks. I called Mr. Ferreira an hour ago to advise him there had been a change in plans.
After a deliberation not long enough to remember I am once again putting myself out for the sake of somewhat strangers, I ask, “Will you do the Christmas fair if I promise not to change the locks while you’re gone?”