Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“I’m not . . .” She pauses, shaking her head again. “I don’t even like him like that. I don’t even really know him.”
“That’s good, considering you’re already in a relationship.” I smile, dropping her hand to press in the code for the door and holding it open for her to enter before me.
“Remember when I told you this morning that you were frustrating?” she asks, stomping up the stairs, and my smile turns into a grin. “Well, that still stands, but you’re also annoying.” I’m chuckling at that as we stop outside her door and unhook Muffin’s leash while she unlocks the door and pushes it open. Going in behind her, I head to the kitchen to put down some fresh water for Muffin while she walks back into her bedroom, coming out a few minutes later with a bag of laundry that’s almost as big as she is and a jug of detergent.
“I’m gonna run down and put this in the machine. I’ll be right back,” she says, muffled behind the bag, and I shake my head.
“If you really think I’m going to let you carry that shit down four flights of stairs, you don’t know me at all. Drop it, babe. I’ll take it down for you while you feed Muffin.”
“No,” she huffs moving to the door, not seeing that I’ve stepped in front of her because the damn bag in her arms is at least five inches over the top of her head.
Taking it from her with ease, I watch her eyes narrow as I grab the jug from her hand. “I’ll be right back.”
“Levi, you are not doing my laundry,” she semishouts, trying to take the bag from me.
“And you’re not carrying a bag of laundry as big as you are to the basement.”
“I don’t carry it down the stairs,” she cries, tossing her hands in the air. “I carry it to the top of the stairs, then let it roll down to the bottom.”
Staring at her in disbelief, I tilt my head back toward the ceiling, praying she’s not being serious right now but having no doubt that she’s done that exact thing each time she’s done her laundry. “What do you do if someone’s coming up the stairs when your laundry is rolling down?” I ask, and she presses her lips together before planting her hands on her hips.
“That’s never happened. I always make sure no one’s around.”
“I hate to point this out to you, but you are one of the most accident-prone women I have ever met in my life.”
“I’m not accident-prone,” she yells, and I lean in.
“You ran into me, literally ran into me, when you were running with your goddamn eyes closed,” I growl, and she bites her bottom lip.
“Fine,” she huffs. “You can carry it down for me, but I’m doing my own fricking laundry.”
“Fine,” I agree, hefting the bag up onto my shoulder before opening the door. Carrying the bag down the steps, I listen to her light footsteps on the steps behind me as we head for the basement, then mutter a curse under my breath when I see how fucking dark the room is where the washers and dryers are kept. The shit looks like something you’d see in a scary movie. I’ve never been down here, because I have my laundry washed and folded through a service.
“They need to get better lighting down here.”
“It’s fine; it’s always been like this,” she grumbles as I drop her bag on a yellow folding table near the door.
“It’s not safe.”
“The building is secure, Levi. Stop thinking like a cop for five minutes,” she says, opening the bag, pulling out an armful of laundry, and carrying it to one of the machines.
“I am a cop. Telling me to stop thinking like a cop is like asking a doctor not to save lives. This building is secure, but that doesn’t mean criminals don’t live here, or that people don’t give out the code to the door.”
“I give up,” she huffs, putting quarters into the slots in the top of the machine and starting it up before dumping in a cup of detergent.
“I’ll tell the super to put new lights in,” I say, looking at the one yellow bulb hanging in the middle of the room.
“Haven’t you ever been down here before?” she asks, looking over at me as she fills a second machine with laundry.
“Nope.”
“So where do you wash your clothes?”
“I send my laundry out. I don’t have the time or the inclination to do it myself.”
“They have that kind of thing?” she asks, and I smile.
“Babe, you live in Manhattan, one of the biggest cities in the world. They have laundry services.”
“Oh.” Her nose scrunches up adorably. “I don’t know how I’d feel about someone besides me washing my clothes. What if they’re a weirdo?”