Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
All right, not so dry.
More like drenched and aching.
As much as I tried not to think about him, the insidious little voice inside my head kept wondering if he had followed through with his plans. Did he find Sloane and touch her the same way?
After everything that has happened between us, it should be a relief to have his attentions turned elsewhere. I’m ashamed to admit that it’s the opposite. He’s the first guy I’ve ever felt this way about. If it were anyone else, I could walk away without a second thought. But I can’t shut down the feelings that have been steadily growing inside me. The best I can hope for is that with time, they’ll wither and die. With the way he’s acting, it shouldn’t take long.
With a stretch, I head to the bathroom. The private en suite makes mine at home look like a dump. It’s at least three times the size, with sleek marble tile and expensive finishes. The shower is a glass enclosure with jets that line the interior walls. There’s also a massive soaking tub spacious enough for half a dozen people. It’s like a mini swimming pool. Normally an amenity like that would thrill me, but I’m unable to summon up the enthusiasm.
Once finished with the shower, I blow dry my hair before pulling it up into a ponytail. Five minutes later, I’m dressed in my school uniform. It’s almost startling when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.
Holy crap, I look like hammered horseshit.
Why am I surprised that my features are so drawn and pale? This week has been a fucking nightmare and now, with my new living arrangement, it won’t improve anytime soon.
If ever.
I grab my makeup bag and dab a bit of concealer under my eyes before rubbing it in. Then I add a smidge of bronzer to my cheekbones for color. Last comes the lip gloss and mascara. With a critical eye, I assess my image for a second time.
Sure, it’s better, but that’s not saying much.
Once all of my emotions have been locked down tight, I grab my backpack and head for the door. I haven’t ventured out of this room since Mrs. Fieber escorted me here last evening. Maybe I’m not a prisoner, but that’s the way it feels. It’s almost a relief to escape to Hawthorne Prep for the day.
A gurgle of laughter rises in my throat. That’s something I never thought I’d say.
Instead of sauntering into the hallway, I hesitantly peek around the doorframe only to find it empty. The plan is to sneak home and check on Mom before grabbing a ride to school with Austin. With my ears pricked for the slightest sound, I slink through the open and airy second-floor gallery. It takes a couple of minutes to arrive at the staircase before jogging down the wide curving steps. My fingers trail over the wrought iron railing as I hit the last tread.
The front door is less than thirty feet away. I can practically taste the freedom that lies beyond the threshold. As I reach for the brushed nickel handle, a deep voice cuts through the deafening silence and all my hopes crash to my toes.
“Where do you think you’re off to?” He pauses for a beat. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were trying to sneak out.”
My arm drops to my side as I spin around and face a rather bored looking Kingsley who lounges against the far wall. He’s wearing his crisp white button-down and perfectly pressed khakis. His normally short hair is longer than when we met at the beach in June and has been left carelessly disheveled. I tighten my fingers in an effort not to reach out and plow them through the thick strands, shoving them away from his eyes.
All the emotion I worked so hard to tamp down riots dangerously beneath the surface, threatening to break loose. As much as I want to despise him, I’m unable to do so. Kingsley Rothchild is like a poisonous drug pumping wildly through my veins. I crave him even though I know he’s a detriment to my health.
If that knowledge doesn’t make me a lost cause, I don’t know what does.
It takes effort to snap back to the present and not lose myself in the sight of him. I straighten to my full height and say in halting tones, “I’m going to check on Mom and then catch a ride to school with Austin.”
“Actually,” he says, lips quirking with amusement, “that’s not what you’ll be doing.” There’s a beat of silence. “You’ll drive with me.”
And just like that, my temper explodes.
Goddamn him!
“No!” All the anger and frustration from the past week bubbles up like a geyser. Instead of stuffing it down, I allow it to boil over. So much has already been taken away, I refuse to lose my freedom on top of everything else. “You can’t tell me what to do!”