Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97369 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Milo removes his cowboy hat and scratches the back of his head. He replaces it slowly before balling his hands into fists at his sides. “Ten, nine, eight …”
“What the fuck, man? Who are you?” Benton scrambles to his feet and stumbles away from me.
“Benton, don’t go …”
“Benton, get the fuck out of here. Seven, six, five …” Milo stalks him, tracing his steps to the front door and slamming it shut the second Benton gets past the threshold. “Get dressed,” he says with his back to me.
“Wow … is that how you’re going to treat Jolene?” Not that I give a shit.
“This is not my house. This is your father’s house. And you’re not my wife. You’re a girl under my care for the next week. Any more questions, Indiana?”
After piecing my clothes back together, I slap my bare feet across the wood floor until I’m at Milo’s back, until I smell the leather and resent the feelings that come with a single inhale. “Newsflash. I am not a virgin. Or a girl. I’m a woman. So I don’t know what you think you just accomplished by kicking my boyfriend out of my house, but I’m sure Fletcher will give you a bone for being such an obedient little watchdog.”
Milo turns, lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Ruff.”
It’s … unexpected. And irritating.
Gah!
I don’t want to smile. He ran off my boyfriend in the most embarrassing fashion. Instead of a smile, I opt for a subject change or maybe a jab to prove he can’t ruin my day without a fight. “Why did your brother kill your parents?”
Milo’s grin falls right off his face. “We’re not having this conversation.”
“Why not?” I plant my hands on my hips.
“Because it’s none of your business.” He glances around the foyer, avoiding eye contact with me.
“So all of my business is your business, but none of your business is mine?”
“Why don’t you finish your homework and go to bed.”
“I’m on break. I don’t have homework. And I was in the process of going to bed when you showed up.”
“You’re eighteen.”
“I’m aware. What exactly is your fascination with my age?” I cock my head to the side, giving him a challenging scowl.
“You want to be an adult? It’s time to grow the fuck up. Stop spreading your legs for anyone with a dick.”
Smack!
Fire blazes along my palm, but I don’t so much as curl my fingers into a fist. I like the sting. It’s what I hope he feels on his cheek. In the next breath, I can only feel how Fletcher’s hand felt on my face the day he lost control. The past hitting back with instant guilt.
Like father like daughter?
No. I’m not his daughter. I’m stolen property.
Besides a tiny twitch of his jaw muscle, Milo doesn't budge. His stern glare bores into me without reprieve while his lips pull into a stiff, flat line. I’m probably not the first girl to smack his smug face.
“If you ever do that again, your dad will be the least of your worries. Understood?” His words penetrate my bones.
I don’t recognize the Milo saying this. It’s not a tone he’s ever taken with me.
“Understood,” I whisper in a shaky voice. Tears burn my eyes. I am, for the first time, scared of Milo Odell. For the first time, I really … really think about his brother killing their parents and what Fletcher said to him. Could Milo have gone to prison too? Does that mean Milo helped kill them? Have I spent most of my childhood trusting a murderer?
“Go to bed,” he snaps.
I nod and bolt up the stairs, oblivious to the tears mixing with mascara and painting black streaks down my cheeks until the bathroom mirror says it all: everything about Milo Odell matters to me. It matters deeply.
His opinion of me.
The way he looks at me.
The tone of voice he uses with me.
And the soul-shattering reality that he will marry Jolene.
After a long bath, drying my hair, and messaging Benton to apologize, I decide to get a snack since I can’t sleep. However, my steps falter when I turn the corner into the kitchen. Milo glances over at me from the stove where he’s cooking a grilled cheese sandwich, getting it good and black. It’s a familiar burnt aroma. His gaze slips a few inches for a brief second … specifically to my chest.
I cross my arms over my nightie. Ruthie always wore pretty nightgowns. I like to wear them too. I like how they make me feel like a woman—like Ruthie, the most exquisite woman I’ve ever known. She wore a robe over her nighties. I have a robe upstairs, but I didn’t put it on because I thought I was alone in the house. And it’s nearly midnight.
And really fucking cold, according to my nipples.