Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I don’t want to play games like these. If we’re going to be in a relationship, I want to know he trusts me. Maybe we need to talk about it. I guess we haven’t really defined our relationship. He just keeps doing insane things like trying to impregnate me, marry me, and move me in with him.
We’ll have hot sex and then we’ll have the talk and I’ll tell him I don’t want him spying on me anymore. If he wants to be my boyfriend, then he should act like a boyfriend—not a warden.
I pick up the pen and click it, then I start jotting down notes from this page of my textbook.
After a few minutes, when it feels natural, I put the pen down and grab my cell phone.
“Hello?” I pause briefly, then look over my shoulder even though I’m alone since that’s what I feel my character would do. “Why are you calling me? I told you Silvan moved me in with him. You can’t do that anymore.” I pause again, trying to think where to take this since I’m fully winging it. “No, Dylan, I cannot meet you tonight. Are you crazy? Look, if you want to talk, you’ll have to text me during school hours. He’s a senior, and we have different majors, so we don’t have any of the same classes. You can’t text me when I’m at his place, though. It’s too risky.”
That last line is almost too much, and I don’t want to tip my hand, so I decide to end my call with pretend Dylan.
“Look, I have to go. I have homework, and he could be home any minute.” I pause briefly. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”
I tap the screen to end my pretend call, then put the phone down.
My heart races a bit now that it’s done. There’s no taking that back.
I have to know, though. One way or the other.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Sophie
When Silvan gets home, I’m not sure what to expect.
It’s evening and already dark outside.
I feel a little jumpy so I’m up off the couch and heading for the kitchen to greet him like an eager pup when its owner gets home.
My eagerness is less excitement he’s here, though, and more anxiety about how he’ll respond—if he’ll respond—to what I did earlier.
I don’t know how the whole spy pen, watching my every move thing works. He has school and his own shit to do, so does he spy on me in real time, or is it something he’ll review later? He may not have heard the phone call yet.
I search his face for some sign of anger. He isn’t looking at me, though. He’s busy putting down the stuff he brought home.
He sets a bottle of wine on the counter and starts unpacking a paper bag full of groceries.
“What do we have here?” I ask, eyeing up the fresh pack of cage-free chicken and package of fresh pasta on the counter.
“Groceries. I bought stuff to make dinner.”
“Ooh. What are we having?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to look at what I bought and see what we can make with it.”
I crack a smile. “Hey, I’m sure many delicious dinners were made that way.”
“We have the essentials in the cabinets already anyway. Olena did some shopping for us earlier.”
“Well, I’ve never made this kind of pasta before, so let’s see how to prepare it.” I pull aside the bag of carrots and the fresh loaf of Italian bread. “We’ll definitely use these. I’m thinking maybe pasta primavera. That’s a good ‘throw it all together’ kind of dish.”
He slides a container of freshly grated parmesan cheese across the counter.
“Thank you. Did you happen to get peas?”
He grabs a bag of them and slides it to me.
“Nice. You did really good for a spoiled rich boy who’s never cooked a day in his life,” I tease.
He smirks, abandoning the bag and coming over to wrap his arms around me from behind. “And how was your day?”
My heart skips a beat. Of course he would stand behind me—where I can’t see his face—to ask about my day. “Not bad. Yours?”
“It’s better now.” He kisses my neck. “What do you need me to do for dinner?”
“Um… You can put a pot of water on to cook the pasta. Have you done that before?”
He lets me go and heads to the cupboards, opening a couple before he finds the one with the pots. “Nope.”
“Make sure you salt it.”
“Salt what?”
I crack a smile. “The water.”
He reaches into the upper cabinet for the salt. “Are you enjoying your new psych class?”
I pause since he’s now indirectly referencing the class he made me drop with Professor DeMarco. “Yeah, it seems good so far.”
He’s salting the pasta water, so his back is still to me.
“Did anything else happen today?” he asks idly.