Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133511 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 534(@250wpm)___ 445(@300wpm)
Memory flooded back.
Painter.
I’d had sex with Painter. Really good sex. I looked to the pillow beside me, finding the imprint he’d left. No sign of him, though . . . Had he taken off? He’d warned me that he wasn’t the type to commit, but had our friendship really fallen apart that easily?
No, I should give him the benefit of the doubt. For all I knew he was downstairs cooking me breakfast.
Standing slowly—isn’t that an interesting little ache between my legs?—I found my bathrobe, then started toward the bathroom, trying not to think about how many times he must’ve fucked and run with other girls. Not like he made me any promises.
God, I was stupid.
I’d left my phone downstairs, so I wasn’t even sure what time it was. Still early. Maybe he’d left me a message.
A quick stop in the bathroom later—holy crap, I need a shower to get all that dried paint off—and I was heading downstairs to find it.
My phone wasn’t on the coffee table or in the dining room, which didn’t bode well. I could hear noises in the kitchen, though, and even smelled bacon. I had a brief, intense fantasy it was Painter. I found Jessica and Taz instead. The Devil’s Jack was leaning back against the counter drinking a cup of coffee, which he raised to me with a smirking salute.
“Good morning,” he said. “Have fun last night?”
Too bad I didn’t know him well enough to flip him off, because I wanted to in a big way. Jess turned from the stove, my favorite red spatula raised like a weapon in one hand while the other was braced on her hip, which she’d cocked belligerently.
“You look like shit,” she said, eyes flicking over me. This wasn’t news. I’d seen my reflection in the bathroom mirror—the paint had dried and flaked into a molting lizard pattern, so I couldn’t really fault her for her words. “Why did you let him in? Didn’t you get my text warning you? I can’t believe you slept with him, are you totally fucking cra—”
“Hey, Jessica,” Taz said, cutting her off. “Shut the fuck up. It’s none of your business.”
Jessica’s mouth gaped open. Then her eyes were narrowing as she turned on him. “You’re just my booty call, don’t think you get a vote—”
Taz reached over and casually caught her behind the neck, jerking her into him for a kiss. Somehow he managed to give me a thumbs-up behind her back as I tried to bite back my laughter. Jess had been so subdued for a while after whatever the hell it was that’d happened to her down in California. I’d been happy to see her showing signs of life again, but this thing with me and Painter? Yeah. None of her business.
I wandered back out into the living room, looking around for my phone. Jessica’s was next to the TV, and I grabbed it to call myself. (She’d been using the same pass code since she got her first phone—I’d cracked it years ago.) The couch buzzed at me before I could even dial, though. Incoming text. The phone must’ve fallen down between the cushions.
I pulled it out to find a series of messages from Painter.
PAINTER: Mel—you’re still asleep so I went to get breakfast. Back soon.
PAINTER: Dunno what you like so getting you a latte.
PAINTER: Back in five.
I smiled, feeling a tension I hadn’t even fully acknowledged release in my chest—he hadn’t pulled a runner on me. Not only that, he’d be here in less than five minutes . . . and I still looked like a diseased lizard!
Oh no. Not gonna happen.
“I’m taking a shower!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, hoping Jess wouldn’t be too busy screwing Taz to let Painter inside. It was a risk I’d have to take, because no fucking way was I answering the door in full molt.
Our tub was one of the best features of the house—a big, old-fashioned claw-foot. An oval shower curtain rack hung down from the ceiling, and I always felt vaguely elegant and exotic in it. Well, at least I felt that way until I turned the water on . . . then things occasionally went ugly. Our hot water was unreliable in general, because we shared plumbing with everyone else in the house. That meant if anyone in the other apartments flushed a toilet, ran the sink, or even blinked too hard, icy cold water exploded over whoever was unfortunate enough to be in the shower when it happened. For once I was lucky—the water ran out hot and strong, liquefying the paint as it ran down my body in streams.
I’d gotten most of my arms and front clean and was trying to figure out how to do my back when a hand came in through the shower curtain. I gave a shriek as Painter stepped inside, covering my mouth with his to swallow the noise. The kiss was hard and hot and desperately hungry, taking me from zero to sixty in an instant.