Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
We do both know it.
However, what we don’t both know is that my boyfriend not only took the liberty of ordering the expensive meal but paying for it, too.
Wagyu beef is one of my all-time favorite types of meat coming in at one of my all-time least favorite prices.
Huh.
Did I just refer to him as my boyfriend?
Is that too soon?
No.
It feels waaaaayyyy too soon for that type of shit. We’ve only been in each other’s lives for a week.
Half.
Yeah. Yeah. I know. Fated Mate and half and bonding and all that shit basically declare otherwise, but remember, I’m still half human and my fucking human side thinks things are moving a bit too fast.
Slow.
You are of no help in this department. If it were up to you, I would’ve fucked him the first night.
Yes.
I briefly shut my eyes to prevent myself from rolling them.
“Should we make this whole ‘too busy to leave the office’ shit a regular thing?” Kyla teases between licks of her light-colored fingers. “Because I am loving the perks.”
“You love any free food,” I playfully retort at the same time I resume cutting another piece of my steak. “It’s why you always volunteer to be my date to company functions.”
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“You mean you don’t like what you feel is being insinuated.”
She flips a wavy brown lock away from her freckled face. “I don’t hear a difference.”
“Which is why I work in human resources, and you’re a phlebotomist.”
“And here I thought I became a phlebotomist to bang hot dudes like Dr. Vass,” my best friend flashes me an amused grin, “who by the way has decided to officially go back to his wife again.” Her light hazel eyes immediately roll. “Like, come on, doc. We all knew it was coming. Divorce is too expensive and getting that broad a tit job to say you’re sorry is much cheaper.”
Snickering occurs as I lift the bite towards my lips. “Have you tried sleeping with regular guys lately?”
“You mean like…pilots?”
More laughter from me escapes while letting the piece of deliciousness melt on tongue.
“Should we talk about who you spent the weekend sleeping with?” She reaches for her nearby napkin to wipe her hands. “We can start with the basics like name, job, size of his-”
“Kyla.”
“401k,” my best friend slyly inserts.
“You were so not gonna fucking say that.”
“Doesn’t matter what I was going to say, just what I did.” The smug smirk receives a sharp glare. “Did you spend all weekend with him, or did you make time to see your dad, too? Wasn’t the annual lumberjack fest this weekend?”
Not wanting to discuss the man who gave me half my genetics leads me to shoving a forkful of the whipped potatoes into my mouth to remain silent.
Fact of the matter is…I’ve barely spoken to him more than the short texts I’ve sent since I found my mother.
I’m not exactly sure how.
I’m not sure what to say. What not to say. What accusations to avoid or conclusions to jump to. I’m not sure what tone to use or even how to fake not seeing the world for the complex creature-filled chaos that it truly is.
What I do know is that he’ll be excited to know she’s been found—although knowing what I know now about how matings tend to work it’s clear to me that he always knew she was alive—and that he’ll wanna see her.
Be with her wherever she is.
But he can’t.
Not until whatever she’s been brainwashed with is totally out of her system—something that is still currently a struggle in progress.
And not until the Draaks have finished interrogating her for the information they need to take down what gives me the vibe of a real-life Legion of Doom situation.
“I couldn’t make it this year,” I casually lie after I’ve swallowed the bite. “Worked late on Friday—exploring new areas of the company I somehow wasn’t aware existed—dabbled with a little more work on Saturday—evaluations don’t read themselves—before going to a rock concert and yesterday my,” the appropriate terminology fails to appear in spite of my mental commanding, “being-”
“Being?”
“Half-”
“Half?”
“Mate-”
“Is he Australian, or are you?”
Fluster and frustration force me to squawk, “Do you want me to finish or not?!”
She juvenilely giggles, lifts her hands in surrender, and leans over to grab a loose piece of meat from her container.
“Yesterday, the two of us got a really late start—courtesy of going to bed at four in the morning. We spent the early afternoon ax shopping and then had dinner as well as watched a movie with his family.”
“And you’re just gonna ignore all the red flags about some guy you just met being willing to go ax shopping with you?” She shoves the hunk of steak into her mouth. “How are your HR senses not tingling?”
“How many times do I have to remind you that people outside of comic books only tingle during sex?”