Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 58600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
I pull back, intent on running away. “I’m sorry. I have to g—”
Before I can say go, he growls and kisses me again. The sound he makes is so freaking tempting. It’s like he’s never been with a more beautiful woman than me. I didn’t know it was possible for me to feel this wanted.
Our kiss grows more urgent. He stumbles forward like he’s trying to take this to the sand. Part of me wants it, to fall, to let go, to open my legs and feel his solid thickness grind through my pants.
“Alex,” I snap. “I’m going.”
His eyes refocus. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. For a moment, I want him to.
Then he lets me go, letting out a shaky breath. “I need to see you again,” he says, panting.
What he needs to do is chill. So do I.
“Text me,” I snap, turning away, walking fast, almost sprinting, part of me wanting him to catch up.
At home, I find Mom passed out on the couch. Her cell phone is propped against a half-empty glass of wine, the screen open on Tinder. She was swiping until she fell asleep.
I step into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face.
That got heated way too fast. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. I wouldn’t have been able to stop him otherwise. His touch was instantly addictive. And the look in his eyes was like he thought he owned me.
I can’t let myself feel this much. If my people-watching has taught me anything, it’s that men like Alex are too good to be true.
Lying in bed, I search his hospital, getting his full name. Alex Whitmore.
I then search ‘Whitmore crash’, finding nothing. I search ‘Whitmore crash, son, Elliot,’ and still… there’s nothing. I grind my teeth. Do I really think he’d lie about something like that?
I don’t know him, so I have to assume yes. Men have lied to Mom about worse things to get her into bed.
Why can’t I find anything about it online?
I close my eyes, walking through his mentality. He sees a woman he wants at a bar. He texts her, trying to figure out if he’s going to get anywhere with her. Then, when they meet, he sees she’s poetic and emotional, even if she’s trying to hide it. He seizes on that with a sob story.
He got heavy toward the end, almost like he wasn’t going to stop. Sure, I didn’t want him to, but that’s not the point. I’m not going to let myself be tricked.
I spend the next thirty minutes searching the internet, scouring for any mention of the crash, using every search term I can think of. Nothing.
Next, I go to the hospital’s blog page. I’m torturing myself, but I don’t care. I need a way to switch off this feeling that’s growing too quickly and stubbornly inside me.
The media page shows countless snaps of Alex at fundraisers, standing with women who look like models. In a few of them, have a hand on his arm, or he’s got his arm looped around their waist.
I’m not jealous. That’s not what this is about.
It’s just interesting, isn’t it, that he’d act like he had nothing to do with women, neglected to mention all these hotties?
Finally, I go to his social media pages, cycling through the public posts and photos. There’s not a kid in sight.
Other people might think I’m jumping to conclusions, but Mom’s most recent boyfriend told her his ex-wife and children lived on the East Coast, used her for months, then finally dropped a bombshell, leaving her a shattered mess all over again.
Right now, Alex could be with another of his women, maybe even laughing about it as they talk about all that true love crap. Don’t call me paranoid. It’s entirely possible.
But if somebody’s going to get hurt here, it sure as heck isn’t me.
Finally, I fall asleep, my dreams a tangled mess of the kiss, the closeness, and the possible lies.
Mom is brewing coffee when I walk into the kitchen the next morning. “You have a good night?” she asks.
“Uh, sort of,” I mutter.
“Sort of?”
I’ve already decided I’m not going to tell Cleo and Lily about my suspicions. Cleo would say that it doesn’t matter. All I should be worrying about is sleeping with Alex anyway. Lily would be disgusted at the idea that somebody would lie about something like that.
Mom pours me a mug of coffee. Things can get tense between us at times, but we’re still all each other has.
“It’s nothing, really,” I mutter. “It doesn’t even matter. But I sort of kissed a guy last night.”
Mom looks younger than her age when she smiles, which is exactly what she does when I tell her this. “How do you sort of kiss a guy?”