Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
I wasn’t going to.
When it came to fight or flight, my system definitely leaned a lot more toward flight.
But I was sure if he tried to attack me, that I could pummel him with it before I ran for my life.
The thing was, he shot up, and the movement made the blanket fall off of him and onto the floor.
And I realized he really wasn’t going to come for me.
Because he looked like he’d just gotten out of the hospital.
A big, bulky cast was peeking out of the leg of his pants, thickening his leg all the way up his thigh. His arm was in a sling. And several of his fingers had little braces on them.
Not only that, but as he tried to shoot up, pain splashed across his face, making him fall back on the cushions, quietly cursing under his breath as he pressed a hand to his ribs.
Despite being an unwanted guest, I felt a pang of sympathy for him as his breath came out of his nose in quick, shallow huffs.
When he finally seemed to relax, I started to speak.
“What are you doing in my house?”
The thing was, though… he asked the same question… at the same time.
“What?” I asked, head jerking back. “What did you say?”
“I said,” he said, voice tight. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Your house?” I asked, looking around, wondering if he was whacked out on pain meds and simply… entered the wrong house by accident. “This is my house.”
“Got a fucking six-inch pile of paperwork in the closet that says otherwise,” he said, glancing over at me with those pretty eyes with all their thick, black lashes around them.
“Listen, sir, I think you might be a little whacked out,” I told him, voice slow like I was speaking to someone particularly dense. “And walked into the wrong house.”
“Sir?” he repeated with a snort.
And, I mean, maybe he was a bit young for a ‘sir.’ But men tended to think you were being condescending if you called them ‘bud’ or ‘hun’ or anything like that.
“How about I call someone for you?” I suggested, this time reaching for my phone, and pulling it out. Though I still wasn’t letting go of the frying pan. “Who would you like to call?”
“The police. To get this chick and her dog outta my damn house,” he said.
“Listen, sir—“ I started again, losing my patience with him little by little. I was tired and hungry and just wanted to be alone.
“Atlas,” he cut me off. “My name is Atlas Rivers. And this is my house.”
“Look, Atlas,” I started, “this is my… wait,” I said, brows pinching. “Did you say Rivers?”
“Yep. Atlas Rivers. That’s my name. And this is my damn house.”
Atlas… Rivers?
Rivers?
That couldn’t be a coincidence, right?
“Um, you wouldn’t, by any chance, be related to a Kingston Rivers, would you?” I asked.
At that, the man’s brows drew low as he slowly pulled himself up to a seated position, but not without a lot more cursing.
“That’s my brother. Kingston, Nixon, and Rush. My brothers. You know them?”
“I, ah, yeah,” I said. “I work at the doggy daycare where Kingston and Savea board their dogs when they travel,” I said.
“Great. Six degrees of separation and all that. But why are you in my house?”
“Because I rent it,” I told him, my free hand already sliding my phone unlocked, and toggling over to Kingston’s number.
“You rent my house? My house?”
“Surely, there must be some sort of… misunderstanding,” I said, my heartbeat tripping into overdrive.
This could not be happening.
I needed this house.
There was no way this was just a misunderstanding, right? Surely Kingston would have known that his brother… wanted to live in his own house?
But then… why had I been living here for months without ever seeing this handsome man named, of all things, Atlas Rivers?
“Uh, hi, yeah, Kingston, this is A…AJ…” I said into the phone, the stress of the moment making me trip over the nickname I was now going by.
“Yeah, AJ. Is everything alright? Did something break?” he asked.
He’d been an amazing landlord. The best I’d ever come across, in fact. I once called to ask if I could use the shop vac in the garage because heavy rains had made some water leak into the basement, and he’d rushed over to suck it all up by himself. At two in the morning. And didn’t even make it seem like an inconvenience.
“No, actually, um. I don’t know how to say this. But I’m standing here looking at a man who claims that the house I’ve been renting is… his.”
There was a pause.
One long enough to make my belly drop.
“I’ll be right over.”
With that, he hung up.
“He’s coming over, isn’t he?” Atlas asked.
“Yes.”
“Shit,” Atlas said, his gaze looking down at himself, lost in his own worries.
I didn’t have time for his concerns, though, not when a million of my own were swirling around in my mind.