Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Shocked at his matter-of-factness about something that definitely doesn’t happen, I stare at him open-mouthed. Oblivious, he stands, closing the door carefully to make sure he doesn’t slam a door handle into my knee and running around to the driver’s side. Once buckled in himself, he drives off into the night.
But he doesn’t ask for my address. Instead, he confidently drives me somewhere else . . . straight to his place.
CHAPTER 9
SAMANTHA
My knee hurts, but I think I owe that speed demon of a kid a hearty thank you because his skate-by assault got me here.
To Chance’s condo.
When he scooped me up to take me home, the expression on Luna’s face stood out to me. It was a combination of you go, girl and be careful!
The ride is mostly a blur as I try to figure out why Chance is so devotedly steadfast to taking care of me when last night was supposed to be a one-and-done. He seems overly upset at the minor injury, too—his jaw set in stone, his hands gripping the steering wheel, and if I so much as move, his eyes jump to my face, reading it for any sign of a worsening condition. If that kid had been an adult, I’m not sure what he would’ve done.
“I’m okay,” I reassure him.
“I know.”
If he knows I’m fine, he’s sure not acting like it. He whips into a space in a private garage, throws the car into park, and is around to my side of the car in a blink. He picks me up again, and instead of arguing that I can probably walk on my own, I go with it, deciding to see where this leads.
I told Chance to try new things, so maybe I should take my own advice. Though it’s a little tragic that being respected and treated well is a novel experience. But I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He carries me to the elevator and says, “Reach in my back pocket. Key card’s in my wallet.”
I do as instructed, holding a blue card up to the scanner and pressing the button for the fifth floor when he tells me. When the doors open again, it’s directly into Chance’s condo, so I guess he has the whole floor.
I don’t get much of an opportunity to look around as he strides to the couch and sets me down on the buttery soft, warm brown leather. All I can see are the floor to ceiling windows along the far wall, which likely look out over the city, though they’re covered by linen curtains right now.
Chance props my knee up with a pillow, but for an unknown reason, it’s not to his liking, and he takes the pillow back out, fluffs it, and then slips it beneath my knee again.
I can’t help but smile at his nursing skills. “You’re good at this.”
It’s a statement of fact, but he shares as though I asked a question. “Me and my brothers were basically live-action WrestleMania when we were kids, except it was all real, not choreographed fakery. And more often than not, we wanted to hurt each other for some imagined wrong or slight. Stupid kids always wanting to be king of the mountain,” he finishes with a look of humor in his eyes. A moment later, it evaporates. “How’re you feeling?”
“Think I’ll have to cancel my morning run tomorrow,” I deadpan. His eyes jump to mine, the worry plain to see. “Kidding,” I promise. “Occasional yoga? Yes. But I don’t run unless it’s to catch the alcohol truck on campus.”
“The what?” He looks concerned I might’ve hit my head, given the gibberish I’m talking. But it’s a real thing.
“Think ice cream truck, but for stressed-out college students. Randy drives through the quad, playing early 2000s hip-hop, and people run out from every direction—from housing, classes, the cafeteria, and more—to get in line for a beer or White Claw. When the weather’s nice, he sells alcohol-infused Otter pops too. That’s about the only thing I run for, and it’s not often.”
I’m laughing at my own laziness by the end of my explanation, knowing that I haven’t run since . . . I don’t even remember when.
“Alcohol truck?” Chance echoes, shaking his head. “What’ll they come up with next? Is that even legal?”
“Don’t know. Personally, I’m hoping for brownies on demand. You can get cookies all hours of the night, but brownies? Gotta make your own, and I don’t have the time or patience for that.”
He chuckles and steps back. “Let me get some ice.”
When he disappears around a corner into what must be the kitchen or a bar area, I take the opportunity to look around. Everything is neutral, mostly charcoal gray, ivory, and brown. There are very few knick-knacks or things with any real personality, other than the shelves along one wall, which are filled with books that have been meticulously sorted by color and size. I wonder if he’s read them all or if they’re strictly décor?