Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119152 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 596(@200wpm)___ 477(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Hannah was the only friend I bothered to stay in touch with. Or enemy. Ben Wallace was a ghost I buried forever ago. The all-star football player who radiated good looks and oozed popularity. The only person who made my blood boil. I’d refused to let him see how much he hurt me and had given it right back. It was a constant battle of whose jab could hurt more.
Then. . . somewhere along the way, I fell for him. When his attention was on me, he made me feel seen. Even if it was negative, at least he still saw me. And it wasn’t like he was wrong. I was ugly. Scrawny. My eyes bugged out in my bifocals. Still, it didn’t give him the right to cut me down. Make me question my self-worth. Ben Wallace made it his mission to hurt me. And the worst part? I never knew why.
“Why didn’t I just walk away?” I grumble to myself as I push off the door. I could have told him to buzz off. Slapped him and continued dancing. I could have ignored him. But nooo. Why would I have done something level-headed and non-insane?
I toss my work bag on the couch and head toward the kitchen, searching for one—or two—bottles of wine. What was I thinking? It’s called vengeance. But to lure him into his hotel room, fake seduce him, and leave him chained to his bed? That wasn’t me. He impacted my life so much, yet he had no idea who I was—the girl he wanted to ruin for sport. My anger took the wheel, got him up to his room, and did all the work.
That kiss, though. I thought I lost the battle the moment his lips crashed against mine. My first thought was to fight him off. But the moment we collided, a spark ignited, so intense, I couldn’t have pulled away if I tried. And I didn’t. I lied, told myself it was all part of the scheme. But on the inside, I craved it, feeling more alive in his arms than I ever have.
I swore I wouldn’t make it out alive when he bared his muscled chest. Then he dropped his pants, and I almost confessed everything. Somehow, I stuck to my plan. The moment I shut that door, I gathered my things from my hotel room and caught an Uber home. There was no way I could stay at that hotel—or anywhere near him.
For so many years, I imagined the day I’d get back at Ben Wallace, but I don’t feel as vindicated as I thought I would. I've never been more terrified, exhilarated, turned on. . . That kiss. . . it lingered. The feel of his lips against mine stayed with me. I kept telling myself it would be a thing of the past by the end of the weekend, and I’d move on.
Then he walked into my classroom looking as delicious as he’d felt under me.
Popping open a red, I pour myself a hefty glass and snatch up the bottle before plopping down on the couch.
“Didn't feel good. Felt terrible. Worst ever.” I take a deep sip of my wine. Time heals a lot of wounds. Not this one. “Even though he’s built like he takes on fires singlehandedly. . . ” I wonder what happened with his football career. In high school, it was all he cared about. He was built then, but now, God. . . And in more ways than one. A lot more ways. Like, huge—
“Jesus.” I cover my face. “Get that image out of your head!” But Ben stupid Wallace is well-endowed, hung like a stall—
“Okay, stop this!” Think of something else. Anything else. Stat. I grab the remote and turn on the TV to distract myself. Food Channel—nope. Home Network—nope. True Crime—Women Who Snap. This might work. . .
“Is that a thing for you? Luring guys in? Getting them to want you?”
“You had me there. The way you kissed me. . . melted around me. . . the way you hiked up that pretty dress and slid against me, getting a taste of what you could have had before you handcuffed me to the bed and left.”
A knock on my front door snaps me out of my haze. My hand jolts, and I spill wine down my blouse. “Shit.” I place the glass on the table and get up, eyeing my watch for the time. Who could be here? Hannah is the only person who knows I’m home. . . unless you count the guy at the bank or the funeral director. Maybe it’s the city handing me a citation for the jungle taking over the yard.
I grab a rag and wipe at the wine stain as I head to the door. I peek through the side window, spotting a young woman on my front porch. Way too cute and definitely not jaded by union life. I open the door. “Can I help—?”