Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
He's in the third bedroom, the room at the back of the house that faces the yard. I hear him muttering on the other side of the door and would rather believe he's on the phone than imagine he’s talking to himself. I've already gotten myself into enough trouble lingering close to a door while he’s unaware, so instead of lurking and trying to overhear something, I head downstairs for breakfast.
It's not like he has a clue I listened to him jerking off. If he does, he hasn't shown any hints of knowing. I doubt he would let something like that go without making a snide comment or scolding me like I’m a child. I know what I did, and I can't forget it. I also can't help but hope it happens again, if only because my body showed the first signs of life below the waist in ages.
That might not be the honest answer but it’s the one I’m going with. Otherwise, I’ll have to admit that the sound of Romero getting off turned me on, and that is unacceptable. No fucking way.
My jacket hangs by the front door, catching my eye as I round the banister for the kitchen. I left Chaz's card in the front pocket. Should I call him? Romero will lose his shit if I do, which isn't exactly enough to convince me to forget it. It's sort of the principle of the thing. I did say I want a job, and I do need something to do besides sit around and wait until it's time to go back to bed. But I just don't know. Getting used to being around people is one thing, but being forced to talk to multiple people over the course of a day might be more than I can handle. It's like learning to be a person all over again, going back to square one.
A smile touches my lips as my eyes land on the coffee pot. At least he made coffee, though I do miss the espresso machine back home. Regular coffee doesn’t scratch the itch the way a cappuccino or a latte does. Maybe I can convince Romero to buy one?
What am I thinking? I'm just going to order one. I don't need his permission.
To think, I graduated college five months ago. I figured I'd be living it up right about now, eating expensive dinners with new friends I met at the agency. I would surely have landed a full-time position, meeting interesting new clients and having an apartment of my own. Obviously, I would hire someone to come in and clean for me once a week because I would be way too busy to worry about things like tile grout in the bathroom.
It’s so funny I could almost laugh through emptying the dishwasher and mopping the kitchen floor. How glamorous. But I was different back then, before graduation and Europe. Somehow, I was caught up in this idea that I could make my relationship work if I just changed myself enough to make Kristoff happy. I may as well have aged a couple of decades in less than half a year, and I wish so much I could go back and give that girl a hug and tell her she doesn't need him. That she's better off without him. That there is bound to be a better life, and a much better boyfriend out there for her. I would have also told her to stay home instead of flying to another country with a man. That’s life. It’s always easy to look back at what we should have done.
Once there's nothing left to clean in the kitchen and I'm finished with my coffee, I'm sort of at a loss. I’d love to go out and take a nice, long walk—the rain has held off, and when I open the window looking over the tiny backyard, a rush of cool air makes me smile. This is the kind of day when you want to drink a lot of hot chocolate and maybe eat a bowl of soup, something cozy and comforting. I don't have either of those things. There’s very little comfort in my life when it still feels like my insides are cold. Icy.
“Goddamn it. Little bastards.”
My ears perk up at the voice coming from out back. Rather than find something to watch or search for a new book on my tablet, I go to the back door and open it quietly, like I’m trying to sneak out. Which is ridiculous, being that I’m not trapped here. I peer outside and find Mrs. Cooper, and from the way she keeps throwing her hands into the air, she appears to be pretty distraught. When her chin starts to quiver, I have no choice except to go outside and figure out what the hell is going on, especially since I can't stand the idea of watching a sweet old lady like her break down and cry.