Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 39475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 197(@200wpm)___ 158(@250wpm)___ 132(@300wpm)
I’ve felt like I’ve been trying to swim upstream in a raging river for weeks, and each time I’m sure I’ve grabbed hold of something solid that will allow me to get to shore, a wave crashes into me, sending me under all over again. But with this, I’ve finally got something that will one day lead to me being completely independent. I won’t need anyone to take care of me ever again.
“What the fuck happened?” Noah barks, and I uncover my face and find him standing in the entryway to the kitchen, dressed in a suit—something I never imagined seeing him in because who the heck would make one in his size?
“Nothing.” I sniffle, using the sleeve of my sweater to dry the tears on my cheeks. Not that it actually helps since tears continue slipping from between my lashes.
“You’re crying, so something happened.” He comes around the counter to where I’m sitting and then spins my computer around so he can look at the screen. “What is this?” His eyes lock on mine, and I shake my head as I swallow.
“It’s…it’s my realtor test.” I wipe my cheeks again. “I just took it and found out I passed.”
As he studies me, I shift on the stool. Since the day Conner showed up here, things between Noah and I have been awkward, and I no longer know if it’s him avoiding me or me avoiding him.
“You took a test to become a realtor?” He looks at the screen again before focusing on me once more.
“Yeah.”
“You never mentioned you were doing that.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Babe, it’s a big fucking deal.” He straightens and begins to loosen the tie around his neck.
“Why are you so dressed up?” I eye him as he takes off his suit jacket and places it on the back of one of the barstools.
“I had a meeting with my captain.” He moves into the kitchen and goes to the pantry.
“Wait, did you find out if you made detective today?” I ask, getting off my stool to follow him.
“I did.”
“And?” I watch as he comes out of the pantry, holding a bottle of very expensive champagne covered in a layer of dust.
“I got the promotion,” he says, so casually I would assume it doesn’t mean anything to him that he got the job he’s been vying for. But I know that’s not true.
“Oh my God.” I rush him and wrap my arms around his waist, resting the side of my head against his chest. “I’m so happy for you.” I tip my head back and find his chin dipped and his gaze soft. “I had no doubt you would get the job.” I smile. “Are you happy?”
“Yeah,” he mutters, and I realize where I am and that he might not want me wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. Letting him go, I step back and rub my palms down the front of the leggings I put on when I got home from work this evening.
“Sorry, I’m just happy for you,” I say. His eyes roam over me from head to toe before he clears his throat and holds up the bottle of champagne between us.
“I’m sure this tastes like shit, but a friend bought it for a special occasion.”
“That champagne is one of the best on the market. It does not taste like crap,” I inform him, and he laughs, the deep, rumbling sound making my belly feel funny. “Give it to me before you ruin it with your negative energy.”
I take it from his hand and then grab a rag to wipe it down before starting the task of carefully removing the black-and-gold metal foil around the cork and unscrewing the casing over the top.
When I’m done, I hand it back to him, noticing he now has the first button of his shirt undone and the sleeves rolled up, exposing his throat and muscular forearms. “Here, you can pull out the cork.”
Taking it from me, he places his thumb under the edge, and my eyes widen. “Wa—!” I open my mouth to tell him not to open it like that, but I’m too late. The cork flies out, cracking against the ceiling in the kitchen, and champagne bubbles out from the bottle, spilling onto the tile at our feet. “You just twist it off,” I whisper, and he looks at me before his eyes go to the very obvious indent in the ceiling above us, then to his feet. “I’ll clean it up.”
“I got it. You can pour.” He hands me the bottle, then grabs some paper towels to clean up the floor.
“Do you have champagne glasses?” I ask, and the moment he looks at me, I know that’s a dumb question because the guy doesn’t even have matching drinkware. “Never mind.”
I go to the cabinet where he keeps his glasses and coffee mugs and grab two of them. Then, unwilling to drink warm champagne, no matter if it is some of the best out there, I go to the freezer, get some ice cubes, and put a few in each of our cups before pouring the clear bubbly.