Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Thank you!” I praise the heavens as I make my way to the kitchen, in desperate need of coffee. As I prep my loyal machine, a jiggling sound comes from the front door. I freeze. It stops, then happens again. Probably someone with the wrong apartment number. I nod to myself, deciding that’s what I’m going with. Until Tate’s stupid comment filters through my mind.
Someone who wants something bad enough…
Reaching down, I snatch a pan from my bottom cabinet. Maybe firing Tate wasn’t the best idea. Fuck. My heart thrashes as I tighten my grip and tiptoe to the front door, readying myself to bash whoever it is over the head before they can kill me and cut me into bite-sized pieces. Then I’m going to run like hell, find Tate, and bash him over the head because why would he leave me? I’m totally putting in a complaint with his company.
The doorknob turns, and I hold my breath. As the door opens, I close my eyes, step forward, and swing.
“Fucking Christ!”
Adrenaline taking over, I swing again, but the pan is ripped from my hands and thrown across the room. I open my mouth to scream bloody murder, hoping a neighbor hears me, when Tate steps into my apartment, holding his nose.
“What the fuck?”
“What? What the fuck you, Tate! I thought you were a murderer coming to kill me.”
“I was checking your fucking locks. Which are shit, by the way.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know?”
“Maybe ask,” he hisses, rubbing his hand over his face.
“You should’ve left a note or something! I had no idea it was you.” He looks down at me like he’s using all his control not to flip me onto my stomach and spank the ever-loving shit out of me. “Should’ve left a note.” I shrug and turn around before he sees the guilt on my face at the blood dripping from his nose.
My coffee pot dings, and I grab two mugs, pouring a cup for each of us. “Here,” I say, handing him one. “I’m sure you can use this. Maybe it’ll help with your crabbiness.” I bite back a snicker as he reads his coffee mug. It has a cute dachshund on it and says, “I love wieners.”
“I have to get ready for Pilates. I assume you’re coming with me?”
“Yep.”
“Fantastic.”
While I get ready, I send the text to Fay.
Me: Have I told you lately how bad you suck? You better tell your boy toy to get his hound dog off my ass or we’re going to have problems!!!!!!!!
Fay Fay: You still haven’t warmed up to him? Theo showed me his file. It’s impressive. Did you know he did two tours in Iraq?
Me: No, I did not know. I’m not talking to him. I’m yelling at him because he’s in my way!!
Me: Iraq, huh?
I assumed he had a military background of some sort. He’s missing that softness around his eyes, which tells me he’s seen things.
Fay Fay: You should give him a chance.
Me: I did. All he does is get in my way.
Fay Fay: Please, just do it for me. It will only be a couple more days. A week max. Theo is pulling out all the stops to find this douchebag.
Me: Okay, but I’m keeping the entire check. A nice pair of Jimmy Choos sounds like the perfect reward for all my pain and suffering.
Fay Fay: Lol. I agree. Hey, gotta run. I’m interviewing a new sous chef. Love you! Let me know how today goes. I’ll text you as soon as I hear anything from Theo.
I send her back a bunch of heart emojis and toss my phone. Looking all snazzy in my Pilates gear, I find Tate standing by my door in fresh clothes. “Where did you get those?”
He opens my door. “Let’s go. You’re going to be late.”
Which is also true. Glenda, my instructor, hates it when I walk in late. “For real, did you rob some guy on the street?”
“No.”
“’Cause you don’t have any bags.”
I walk out of my door and stop. No one’s shocked when I turn around and slam into his chest. Dammit. I bring my eyes up to his. “I’ve got it. You’re a magician.”
He shakes his head. “Walk, Mindy.”
I shrug and turn around, putting one foot in front of the other. I’m tempted to ask him about Iraq as I go down the stairs. But that would mean I care. And I don’t need to know anything about him. What I do need is to know when he’s going to be gone so I can get back to my regularly scheduled program.
But I’m also really nosy.
“Is it true? You did two tours in Iraq?”
He’s not fazed by my question. “Yep.”
“What did you do over there?”
“Lots of things.” He leans forward, pushing open the front door of my apartment complex.