Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46914 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 235(@200wpm)___ 188(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
I’d prefer for her not to have to work, but we need the money.
Later, I stare at the ceiling in bed and wonder if sleep will ever come.
I should be exhausted from another long day, but my mind clashes with thoughts of Weston.
If I’m not running my fingernails down his muscular chest, or tasting his skin against my lips as I kiss his neck, or feeling shimmers of lust as his hands slide possessively up my legs….
I’m thinking of the future instead.
Way, way into the future, with him emerging from a glistening swimming pool, laughing as our children clamber around him, and then he looks over at me, grinning, happiness emanating from every handsome feature.
With a sigh, I grab my phone, knowing it’s the worst possible way I’m going to get any rest.
Scrolling through social media, watching random videos online, and doing anything to distract myself.
That’s what I’d usually do when thoughts of Mom became too much, or dread about rent crept into my mind.
But instead, I find myself opening a text and entering Weston’s name.
It’s a silly thing to do.
I try to mutter an inner lie, saying that I’m not entirely in control. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m so overcome with lust that my fingers take control and then it’s over, the battle lost before it begins.
But the truth is that I decide to compose the message.
I know it’s wrong. I know nothing good can come of it.
It’s like spitting in Aurora’s face after how kind she’s been, giving me a chauffeured ride from work, giving me a chance in a field I’m determined to get better in.
Hey, Weston, I type. You don’t know me, but I wanted to say I think you’re incredibly talented. I believe you are one of the best actors of our generation. I know you hear that all the time. I know you can look at your Oscar and be reminded of that whenever you want. But it’s the truth. Yours warmly, Alice.
I go back over the message, my heart thudding so hard it’s more like I’m getting ready to bungee jump or skydive than send a text message.
My mouth is dry, my body pulsing with wave upon wave of need.
It’s time to stop, to back down, and not allow myself to sink into sinful, tempting fantasies.
Instead, I remove the last part where I give my name.
I hold my thumb over the send button.
He won’t know who I am.
He might get pissed that some stranger has his personal number, but he won’t know it’s me.
He won’t know I stole the number from Aurora.
I put my phone down without sending it, standing and walking through the apartment into the bathroom.
Splashing cold water on my face, I look at myself in the mirror at my reddened cheeks, big forehead, too-wide eyes, and nervous lips – all the imperfections that mean a man like Weston would never want a woman like me.
What am I doing? Who the heck do I think I am?
Returning to the bedroom, I pick up my phone.
“No,” I hiss when I realize what’s happened. “Oh, no.”
My phone, like everything else I own, is on the cheaper side. One of the side effects of this is that the touchscreen started malfunctioning almost as soon as I got it.
Apps will randomly close, the touchscreen thinking I killed them. Or apps will randomly open.
I should’ve anticipated this.
It’s accidentally sent messages before, though it’s never been a problem. So one half will send, then I’ll type the rest and send that.
But now, it is a problem.
I’ve sent Weston the message.
I pace around my bedroom, wringing my hands as I wonder what I’m going to do.
At least he doesn’t know it’s me….
But he can easily find out. He’d have to ask Aurora and match the cell numbers.
Would he think to do that?
Nothing in the message suggests I work with her or that I’ve ever met him.
I grab my phone, typing quickly.
The malfunctioning touch screen accidentally causes me to backspace a couple of times, but then I have my message.
I know it will seem odd, a complete stranger messaging you out of the blue. I hope you’re not offended or upset or anything. I’ll leave you alone now.
I click send, then remember to lock the screen this time. Otherwise, my busted phone might send him an entire love poem without me telling it to do so.
Rolling over, I bury my face in the pillow.
Nobody will ever find out about this.
Stealing a client’s number is a big no-no.
It’s not as if I can afford to let this job go.
I was lucky to get it to begin with.
Unsurprisingly, sleep continues to elude me since anxiety is thudding around my body.
It gets worse when my phone vibrates from the bedside table, the brr-brr like a drill pushing into my head, torturing, taunting.