Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Damn it. My head is done in. Life was easier when I didn’t think too much. But I can’t stop thinking.
“I’m sorry.” I take a step back. Then another. “I forgot there’s something I have to do.”
My friends and Jenni all pause. Silence falls over our small circle as they gape at me. I don’t give a damn. I keep backing away. “Nice to meet you, Jenni.”
I don’t turn around and head for the living room. But when I get there, Brenna is gone. And so is Marshall.
Chapter Six
Brenna
Curled up on my big, soft couch before the TV in my den, I finish up the second French braid in my hair then stretch out and wiggle my sock-covered feet. This is more like it. I love my couch. Nice and deep, squishy down-filled and upholstered in pale pink velvet—it’s the kind of thing my parents would have called frivolous and, yes, it cost more than a month’s rent on my first apartment. But I worked my ass off to get where I am, and I like my luxuries.
I like being home, frankly. I don’t get to be here or by myself enough as it is. After I finally escaped the party, I gave myself a mini spa, taking a nice long shower while wearing a detoxifying clay mask, shaving the essential bits, then slathering on a rich body moisturizer that smells of cookies. It’s late as hell, and I should be sleeping. But sleep eludes me these days. Instead, I’m watching old movies and eating my way through a can of Pringles. What can I say? They’re my weakness.
I’m happily munching when the bell rings. Given that I have a doorman to keep unwanted visitors away, my hackles rise. Everyone who knows where I live and would visit me at this hour is still at Stella’s birthday party. I’m guessing it’s one of my neighbors, needing help or maybe wanting to borrow an egg…at two in the morning. Shit.
The bell rings again, and I make my way to the door, remote clutched in my hand like a bat.
A peek through my peephole has me cursing wildly. Rye glares back at me, obviously aware that I’m peeping. I jerk back from the door then wrench it open. “What are you doing here?”
“You gonna club me with that remote?” He nods toward my hand where I still clutch it tight.
“I just might. It’s two in the morning.”
A long-suffering sigh leaves him. “Bren, I’ve spent the past decade staying up till all hours.” He raises a brow. “And so have you. It’s early for us.”
“That might have been true a couple of years ago. The thrill is officially gone now.”
His smile is barely there and weary. “Yeah, it is. Can I come in?” The smile dies, and he attempts to peer past my shoulder. “Or do you have company?”
“You thought I might have company, and yet you still showed up?”
That lopsided smile of his turns into a grimace. “No?”
I will not fall for that helpless hound dog look of his. It is not cute. “No, you didn’t think? Or no, you’re not actually here, and I’m hallucinating?”
“As much as I like the idea of you hallucinating about me, I meant no, I didn’t know if you had company, but I wanted to make sure anyway.”
When I gape back at him, he shifts his feet and eyes my foyer. “Well? Are you going to let me in?”
The petty girl in me really wants to close the door in his face. She’d gain a lot of satisfaction out of that—checking to see if I had a date in here, indeed. But I act like a grown-up and open the door wider, stepping aside to give him room. “All right then.”
With a nod and a grim set to his mouth, Rye walks past me and waits in the living room while I close the front door. He takes a long look at my pink pajama bottoms and black tank top, swallows audibly, then blinks, but his expression remains blank. The Rye I know would have commented on the pj’s. And while he would never point out that I am not wearing a bra, because though he is an ass, he isn’t a pig, he keeps his gaze on my face.
At first, I assumed he was here to bug me yet again about my “problem,” but he’s acting as though he’s about to face a firing squad, so now I’m not so sure. Fear that it’s about one of our friends starts creeping up my shoulder blades.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“Wrong?” He rubs the back of his neck, the action making his biceps pop. A huff of dark amusement leaves him. “I don’t know. I’m at your house alone for the second time in…well, ever, about to make a fool out of myself. Again.” His arm drops, and he frowns, pinning me with a look. “I don’t know if I’d define that as wrong, precisely.”