Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“No way.” I reach down and squeeze her hand. “You’ve been looking forward to this trip since September.”
“True.” She shrugs. “But I don’t want to leave you all alone.”
“I won’t be all alone. Geez. I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, realllly.” She drags out the word, teasing me. “Is Dex gonna come over?” she sings.
“Maybe. We’ll see. That’s none of your business, young lady.”
She giggles. “Oh, he’s so coming over to keep you company.”
“Ugh.” I flop back against the pillows.
She stands. “You need more sleep.”
“So do you.”
She searches my room. “Do you want me to leave a light on?”
“No, it’s okay.” I yawn.
“All right. Night, Em.” She shuts off the light and quietly closes the door.
I turn over and close my eyes.
The horrible images return immediately. The dread, the horror. All of it.
This is what I hate about nightmares the most. Sometimes, they never let go of you.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Emily
The drive home Friday night is a blur. A rush to get home. As I pull into my driveway, I spot something colorful on the front steps. I park and hurry to the front door.
A short but full bouquet of flowers sits in a square, orange glass vase. Protective see-through wrapping is pulled up over the arrangement, but inside, I make out hot-pink roses, orange Gerbera daisies, and other bright, happy blossoms I don’t know the names of. I pick up the flowers and bring them inside, setting them on the entry table.
Carefully, I peel off a small card taped to the wrapping.
Emily.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight.
Dex.
The words are printed in black ink. Something he probably typed online when he ordered the flowers. I clutch the note to my chest and smile. How sweet.
I invited Dex over for dinner and to watch another movie. But it’s a cover story. After last weekend, and now the flowers before he even gets here—my need to jump this man is sharper than any desire I’ve ever felt before.
Still, I plan to make dinner. I’m not a complete hussy. Something quick and light.
I rush into the kitchen and peel the wrapping off the flowers and place them in the middle of the table. Nah, I’d rather have them in my bedroom so I can see them first thing in the morning. I poke my head in the fridge to make sure I have everything I need, then carry the flowers upstairs. In my bedroom, I set the vase on my desk, then hurry to shower and change.
Twenty minutes later, I’m searching my underwear drawer for something sexy and flattering. My hand brushes over a hot-pink satin bra. It’s a bit snug. I only break it out for special occasions. It makes my boobs look amazing. There’s a matching pair of panties here somewhere. I rummage through my drawer until I find them tucked into the bottom corner.
Once I’ve settled on the underwear, I search for an outfit. Why didn’t I plan this earlier in the week?
I yank open a dresser drawer, searching through stacks of sweaters. My hand brushes over a soft emerald green one. I look good in green. It’ll clash with my underwear though.
Dammit.
I race to my closet, sliding the door open so fast it bangs and springs forward a few inches.
Jesus, Em, calm down.
Why do I have so many clothes and nothing to wear? My fingers skitter over something thin and soft. Black lace. Aha! I yank the blouse off its hanger and study it. Soft, clingy jersey fabric. Plunging neckline—which is why I’ve never worn it to work. But the lace edging along the deep “V” keeps it semi-classy. I hope the hot-pink bra doesn’t show through.
Actually, I hope it does.
Skirt or pants? I stare at rows of neatly hung clothing. This is why I prefer to wear dresses. No mixing and matching required. Black-and-white houndstooth pants? Too formal. Houndstooth skirt? Why do I own so many black-and-white bottoms?
Jeans. Can’t go wrong with jeans. I find a pair of gray skinny jeans and wriggle into them. The last time I wore these, Libby laughed and said no one wears skinny jeans anymore. But I don’t give a damn. The teenage fashion critics of the world will have to pry my skinny jeans from my cold, dead hands.
I prefer heels but hate the idea of clacking around the house in them. Instead, I slip into a pair of black, pointy-toed flats with little silver studs decorating the tips. They look kinda biker-chick. Perfect.
A distant rumble draws my attention.
He’s early.
Shit, shit, shit!
I race around my room, stuffing underwear, panties, and sweaters back into their proper drawers. Thank God I made my bed this morning. I click the remote to turn on my set of white flameless candles, checking that the batteries still work. They flicker to life, casting a soft glow. They’d be better off on the nightstand, right? I pick up all three and set them on the nightstand next to the bed.