Meet Hate Love Read Online Stevie J. Cole

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Erotic, Funny, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
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I glanced back at her and jerked my head toward the lift. “You wanna go up first?”

“I’m not getting into that.” She looked mortified. “I’m taking the stairs.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

She nodded toward the open doors with wide eyes. “It’s the size of a coffin.” She’d said that with unnerving certainty.

“How many coffins have you been in?”

“One less than you if you get in that thing.”

The door began to close, but I grabbed it and shoved it back open. “Are you serious about taking the stairs?”

“Only a person who didn’t take life seriously would willingly climb into that metal deathtrap.”

Metal deathtrap… I glanced at the non-metal interior of the elevator. “It’s wood paneling and—”

“I wasn’t being literal.”

“Suit yourself.” I shoved my suitcase inside, then grabbed hers before passing over the card key to the room. “I’ll be waiting in the room for you to climb ten flights of stairs.”

I caught a half smile before the elevator door slid closed.

The pulley system creaked as the lift slowly rose to the tenth floor. I dragged both mine and Blake’s luggage out, following the signs toward room 1013.

When I shoved the room key into the lock and opened the door, Blake was already in the room, facing the queen-sized bed covered with purple throw pillows and a box of macarons.

“How did you get up here so fast?” I asked.

“I ran,” she said, obviously winded. “I wanted to beat you.”

Of course she had.

She glanced over her shoulder just as the door clicked shut. “There’s a problem. There’s only one bed.”

I quickly scanned our surroundings. One gaudy chandelier, two velvet wingback chairs flanking a small table holding a complimentary bottle of wine, and across from the floor-to-ceiling window, the lone bed.

“We’re not sharing a bed,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest like this was my doing.

“No, we’re not.” Not that I was near as disgusted by the idea as she apparently was, but I had a history of sleep sex, which meant there was no way in hell I trusted my dick to share a bed with her. “There are supposed to be two beds.” I stepped around her and noticed a small alcove on the far side of the room.

“Ah!” I ducked inside.

Coffee bar, a second TV, and a couch—I lifted the cushion. Thank God. It was a pullout. “There’s a sofa bed in here. Don’t worry. I’ll take it.” After all, she may have been blackmailing me, but I had nearly finagled her coveted assignment from her. Volunteering to take the pullout could absolve me of some guilt, right?

The tropical scent of coconut wafted past when she walked by. “Okay. What’s wrong here?” She took one of the throw pillows off and inspected it. “Bodily fluids? Dead mice?”

Earlier in the year, Amanda had assigned Blake to do a write-up on the best places to spot UFOs. She’d ended up in a Nevada desert hotel called the Extraterrestrial Landing, where she had, indeed, found a dead mouse underneath her alien-shaped pillow. And how did I know that? Because I’d read every one of her write-ups. Blake’s writing was witty and ridiculous and made me feel like the quality of my work was on the same level as a drunk man using his piss to write a haiku in the snow.

“This is a four-star hotel in the center of Paris,” I said. “The concierge’s name is not Jethro. There will not be dead mice.”

She chucked the pillow back to the sofa. “So, you’re just trying to be nice?”

“Yes.”

Her arms came across her chest. “The guilt is really weighing you down, isn’t it?”

“It’s just the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Pfft.” She eyed me up and down. “You? Gentlemanly?”

“My Southern Baptist grandma raised me. She wore leather-soled shoes and threatened to beat me with them if I didn’t hold open doors for ladies.”

Cocking a petite brow, she took the water pail from the Keurig on the coffee bar. “She evidently didn’t beat you hard enough,” she mumbled on her way out of the alcove. “What are we doing first?”

“I emailed you the agenda,” I called after her.

Water cut on in the bathroom. Seconds later, she came back into the room with the filled canister. “I didn’t look at it.”

Of course, she hadn’t. “You have five thousand unopened emails in your inbox, don’t you?”

She moved past me, placing the water tank back in its place. “Try twelve thousand. About one-hundred and sixty-four ignored texts and ninety-nine notifications on InstaPic.”

The absolute horror. I felt my lip curl at the disorganization. “You’re feral.”

“I like to call it living on the edge.”

She lived on the edge all right. The machine hummed, spitting a stream of dark liquid into the mug. “Want one?”

“Sure.”

I leaned against the wall, watching her dump two packs of sugar into the mug before she passed it over. I wasn’t sure whether her knowing how I took my coffee should have flattered me or scared me. All the better to poison you with…


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