Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Protocol dictates I can confiscate your device and search it any time I deem necessary.” Slater folds his arms firmly across his chest. “Would you like me to follow protocol or simply tell me who’s textin’ you?”
“It’s just Harv.”
There’s no denying the hardlines that appear on my best friend’s face.
“He was just checking on me.”
“Checkin’ on you.”
“Telling me he’s glad I’m okay.”
“Glad you’re okay.”
“Why are you repeating what I say like I’m speaking in code?”
“Are you?”
My brow furrows in confusion over the accusation as much as the navy-blue dispersing in the air.
“Is ‘checkin’ on you’ and ‘glad you’re okay’ code for ‘are you alone?’ and ‘is now a good time to talk about dinner next week’?”
“What?!” Bewilderment immediately bursts through my tone. “No.”
“No, it’s not code for that shit, or no, you’re not plannin’ on goin’ to dinner with him next week?” His words darken and tremble during their descent to the floor. “’Cause protocol dictates I escort you on dates too, Arley. Even when they’re with our fuckin’ boss.”
Guess it was just wishful thinking that we wouldn’t have to revisit this subject again…ever.
“How about you turn off our cell for the night?” The dark hue in his voice indicates it’s clearly not a suggestion. “Worry about work, or what should be work but isn’t, in the mornin’ instead?” He sucks away whatever words got stuck in his teeth. “Get some actual rest?” His open palm extends itself my direction. “Phone.”
I begrudgingly slam the device into his hand and mock, “What’s next? Sending me to my room?”
“Yup.” Slater powers down the device without breaking eye contact with me. “Your room is now my room, and my room is now the couch.”
“You can’t be serious.”
His expression remains unchanged.
“I can sleep on the couch.”
“No.”
“You know I don’t mind sleeping on your couch, Cowboy. I mean I picked it out, remember?” Seeing the twitch of a smile has me playfully adding, “You wanted to bring home that white plaid flannel mistake that belonged in someone’s great grandmother’s backwoods basement, but I saved you by dragging you over to that gray, plush, luxury, piece of heaven that is now more than acquainted with my rounds of drool.”
“It is a medical marvel that that much spit comes out of somethin’ so small.”
Playfully punching him causes laughter to spill out into the air.
Yet again banishing the bad blood that’s trying to build between us.
“Regardless of your…very intimate relationship with my couch,” another swat is delivered to his shaking abdomen, “you’re sleepin’ in my room. It’s cleaner. It’s nicer. And it’s a much easier position to defend than the living room which has too many points of entry to protect.”
“But-”
“Angel Cake could you please just…not argue with me about this?” The pleading in his tone matches the one in his stare. “Could you just…let me do my job?” My sheepish nodding is by an almost whispered expression of gratitude. “Thank you.”
No more orders are given, nor words exchanged.
Slater abandons my phone on the counter, gingerly grabs my hand, and leads me to the one area I can honestly say I’m the least familiar with in his penthouse.
And you know what?
Part of me is more than okay with that.
I don’t need to constantly be in the area obviously not meant for me.
It’s the place you bring the woman you’re planning to fuck, not the woman you’re planning to talk about poor decisions made during the NHL Entry Draft.
Upon entering the room, the switch is pushed upward, an action that causes all of the industrial styled lights to highlight a surprisingly lifeless space. Between the neatly made bed and the clutter free nightstands, I can’t help myself from wondering where his real room is. Not because he’s messy – he’s actually obnoxiously neat, which is something I blame his military background for – but because this entire area screams “for display use only”. Hell, I’m pretty sure even the bottle of whiskey on the mini table next to his leather sitting chair still has its price tag on it.
I hope he knows, I’m more than willing to help him open and or empty that.
Slater releases his hold to cross over to the wall nearest the floor to ceiling windows. “I tend to keep these open when I sleep in here because I love the city lights, but I can close ‘em. It’s no trouble. Just a push of a button.”
“So, you do sleep in here?” I playfully beam his direction. “This isn’t just the place where the magic happens?”
He swings his stare back to me just in time to see my eyebrows waggle. Light laughs are attached to a slow headshake. “That type of magic never happens in here.”
Curiosity once more gets the better of me. “Then where does it happen?”
“Bathroom stall of the bar.”
“Super classy.”
“Or the back of my truck.”