Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Strutting into his closet, he returns with a clean t-shirt and a white button down, both of which appear crisp and freshly starched.
“Here.” He hands me the button down.
“Are you sure?”
He exhales. Annoyed, I think. I mean, it is a dumb question. He wouldn’t have led me all the way inside and offered me clean clothes if he wasn’t sure.
“Thank you.” I tug the shirt over my head, unbutton the last few buttons and tie them at my waist. The stain on my dress is mostly covered—even if this outfit combo is insane.
His gaze drinks me in. I can’t tell whether he approves nor can I tell why it suddenly matters to me …
In one fluid movement, he rips his wet t-shirt off, tosses it on the bed, and tugs the clean one on. I force myself not to stare at his chiseled torso or the rippled abs that peek out from the fabric. Without breaking eye contact, he finger combs his messy waves into place.
“This is really kind of you.” I smooth my hand along the front of the white dress shirt. “I’ll have it cleaned and returned to you next week.”
Somehow …
I don’t even know what dry cleaning costs. I’ve never owned clothes that couldn’t be shoved in the washer with a scoop of Gain and hung on Mama’s line.
“What would your parents say if they knew you were here?” He finally breaks the silence.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re Rich Rose’s girl.” It isn’t a question, and there’s a finite layer of disgust in his tone, like muck and mire at the bottom of a sparkling pond.
I nod. “I am.”
“Can’t imagine your parents would be thrilled to know you were here,” he says, adding, “with me.”
“You’re right. They wouldn’t be.”
Quietude hangs between us like a crystal chandelier.
“What about yours?” I ask, before I catch myself. He doesn’t have parents. Plural. He has a parent. Singular. My cheeks burn hot in the dark. There’s no fixing it now.
His gaze narrows. “My father would have his second coronary, that’s for sure. He’d probably disown me. At the very least, disinherit me. And my mother, well, not really sure what she’d say since she isn’t here to say anything … and I think we both know why.”
I cover my heart with a palm. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Are you always so apologetic?” He leans on the footboard of his bed, hands gripping the wood until the veins of his forearms bulge. “All you’ve done since you barged into my life is apologize for every little thing.”
“Just trying to be polite,” I say. “And you give me the impression that I’m bothersome to you. Or maybe you just make me nervous. I don’t know. You have a very distinct … vibe about you.”
He squints. “And what kind of … vibe … would that be?”
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Lord help me if I unintentionally insult him again.
“Look,” I say. “I shouldn’t have gone for a swim the other night. It was wrong. I’ve never done anything like that before. You see, our AC broke last week and you know we’re in the middle of this heat wave, and the public pool has been closed for maintenance all week and—”
He lifts a hand to silence me. “Please don’t insult me with trying to justify what you did.”
“Well, I’d apologize but you don’t seem to like apologies, so …”
“I don’t like weak people. If you’re going to be an asshole, own it.”
“I’m not an asshole.” I fold my arms across my chest, head cocked. “Kind of think it’s the opposite of being a weak asshole when you’re strong enough to admit when you’re in the wrong.”
He smirks. “Agree to disagree.”
His attention skims past my shoulder as he checks on the party below.
“We should probably get back out there,” I say. “I’m sure they’re missing you.”
He chuffs. “Doubtful.”
Pushing himself away from the bed, he makes his way to a small cabinet in the corner of the room, which I quickly realize is some kind of fancy mini fridge disguised to look like a furniture piece. When he returns, he hands me an icy glass bottle with a skull on the label. Misfit Meredith IPA. I recognize the brand as the local brewery in town.
“Have a beer with me first,” he says.
He doesn’t want to go downstairs.
He wants to stay here, in this dark room, and drink with me.
I don’t understand …
Digging his keys from his pocket, he produces a small bottle opener to pop our tops.
“Drink up, Rose girl,” he says. “The night is young.”
Out of politeness, I take a sip. It’s bitter on my tongue and smells like a more expensive version of the canned beer my father drinks after a weekend overtime shift.
“You sure you don’t want to go back downstairs?” I ask.