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)
“Oh, so now you don’t want to kick just me out of my home. You want to toss hundreds of tenants out in the cold only days from Christmas as well?”
I freeze like a statue when he says, “It’s better not to be home for one Christmas than never to celebrate it again! You won’t be able to celebrate anything if you’re dead.” Remorse settles on his face as fast as the words whip from his mouth. “Shit.” He steps closer. “Angel—”
“Don’t.” I wipe the stupid tear rolling down my cheek before pulling away from him. “You’re right. This is my karma.” I can’t see through the grief clouding me. I can’t breathe through it. “None of this would be happening if I had just come home for Christmas like I’d promised.”
“Darling, no.” Mrs. Roach doubles my dizziness by briskly shaking her head. “This isn’t your fault.”
“It is. Mrs. Richler hates me, and she’s taking her dislike out on everyone else.”
“No. This fight commenced years before you went to Juilliard.” Mrs. Roach grabs my hand I suddenly realize is wet from when I wiped my cheeks. “Your mother didn’t tell you because she didn’t want you to give up your dreams for someone unworthy of your time.” When I scoff like I don’t believe her, she hits me with a truth that almost knocks me on my ass. “That’s why she placed your name on the lease. She wanted to make sure you were protected if anything happened to them because she didn’t trust Mrs. Richler. Placing you on their lease meant Mrs. Richler wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on if she tried to go against you. Your mother was a beautiful woman, Angel, but she was also incredibly smart. She played Mrs. Richler at her own game.”
I can’t speak, stunned into silence, so Christian picks up the slack. “Angel’s name is on the lease?” When Mrs. Roach nods, he points to the ground. “On the original ninety-nine-year lease of her apartment?”
Again, she nods. “Yes. The building’s owner re-signed them only five years ago. He understood a parent’s wish to protect their child and helped her achieve that.” She turns her watering eyes to me. “Were you not informed?”
“No.” I shake my head before adding more words to my shocked reply. “I was under the assumption I was trespassing in my own home.”
“Oh, darling. I thought you knew. If I hadn’t, I would have told you sooner.”
Her confession makes Christian’s smile blinding.
It makes me angry.
I’m meant to be mad, not admiring his sultry grin.
He looks at me as if I just asked to have sex with him while saying, “Your name is on the lease.” I stare at him in silence, lost on why he’s acting so neurotic. He looks like it is Christmas morning and I suddenly overcame my dislike of Christmas. “That changes everything. You have rights. A fucking ton of them.” For the first time in the past minute, his shoulders sag. “But I can’t tell you what they are here. It isn’t safe.”
“I’m not going.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I refuse.”
His smile. Kill me now.
“Then I guess I have no choice but to force you out.”
“Already tried that. Failed miserably.” My cockiness slips when he pivots on his heel and heads for the exit. I follow him. “Christian… no… don’t you dare!” I shout when he flicks up the safety cover of the fire alarm button just outside Mrs. Roach’s front door. “I’ll—” The loud shrill of the fire alarm cuts off my threat.
I hit Christian with the stink eye to rival all stink eyes before I march back into the living room and plop my ass on the plastic covers Mrs. Roach purchased for my mother the Christmas before she passed. I assume Mrs. Roach was a guest at my parents’ Christmas Eve brunch because my mother never left the plastic on long enough to mold them to the cushions.
My backside barely braces the protective covering of Mrs. Roach’s couch when Christian snatches up my wrist, hoists me up, and then tosses me onto his shoulder like he did this morning.
“Put me down!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
When he refuses my request, I throw out my arms and legs.
He grunts but continues strolling like not a single whack hits his crotch, which I am aiming for.
I fight him all the way. Down the stairwell flooded with guests and residents, through the foyer worthy of the hefty price tag apartments in my building seek, and into the street where multiple firetrucks are racing down the narrow opening.
My beatdown ends when the fire chief’s inspector backs up Christian’s claims that the building is unsafe for tenancy. “Whoever oversaw the remodel wasn’t qualified, and the materials used aren’t up to industry standards.”