Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
After saying goodbye to Graham, I check my phone.
Would you like to win $5,000,000? Please complete this survey to….
I throw my phone onto the table in disgust.
Disgust at myself more than anything else.
I only saw her last night, and already she’s taken complete control of me, becoming the only person I care about, the only woman I’m capable of caring about.
I tell myself the disgust comes from our age gap. According to the freelance website, she’s nineteen.
But that doesn’t matter to me.
I tell myself it comes from the power imbalance.
I’ve lived longer. I’ve seen far more of the world.
I’ve fought dangerous men and lived to talk about it.
According to the poems she deleted, she’s so scared of leaving the house it drives her to scream.
But I don’t care about that either.
The disgust comes from knowing she’ll never want me with the same urgency I want her. She couldn’t because it’s downright insane. It’s the product of a childhood spent under the fist and then an adulthood spent aiming my fists at other people.
And now this, who I am now.
A man who wants nobody until my angel flies into my life.
I pushed too far. She’ll never reply.
Screw it, then.
I pick up my phone and type, I need you, Mia, and that’s the truth. I know this will seem absolutely crazy to you, but the second I saw your photo, I knew I owned you. I knew every single inch of your young curvy body belonged to –
I stop texting when a message appears.
From Mia.
Sorry. My phone died.
The everyday ordinariness of it makes me delete my message.
What the hell am I thinking?
CHAPTER 4
Mia
I sit on the couch, my eyes aching from staring at the laptop for so long. Mom is on the armchair across the second-hand coffee table – we sold all our things when Mom lost her job – her head aimed at her paperback like something terrible will happen if she looks elsewhere.
Studying her, I remember what Andrea Nelson was like before Dad’s death.
Dad’s nature took a toll on her, but her hair was far fuller before. Her body was thicker and sturdier, but now her clothes hung off her. The bones press through her hands.
But her eyes are the same, with light trying to break through the darkness, and when she smiles, it’s like a gift.
She looks up, spots me watching her, and gives me a gift.
“Good book?” I ask.
She nods. “Absorbing.”
That’s what she always says. Never anything specific but absorbing, meaning the book is swallowing her, so she doesn’t have to think about other things.
I don’t see anything wrong with that.
After spending the day working, my resolve gone, I felt as if I was compelled to check Killian’s text.
Just opening the message made my heart flutter, with the thought of him reading my poetry, with the idea he could be mocking me.
Just my name.
Mia?
I imagined it in his voice. I know how gruff and husky he sounds from an interview last year where he discussed winning an award for his tattooing work.
He didn’t seem happy, staring hard at the camera, his silver hair seeming to blaze just like on his website.
I lied to him and told him my phone had died.
When he replies, I stand quickly, like the vibration of my phone has jolted me to my feet.
Mom looks at me sharply.
“Work email,” I tell her.
She nods, and I walk into the bedroom, not daring to tell her the truth.
That just the thought of Killian has got my body aching, tingles dancing up and down my thighs, this man I’ve never met, this stranger. He’s making everything feel so much more sensitive, my panties rubbing against my sex, my lips aching.
It’s all so new. I’ve never touched myself before.
Does that make me weird?
If I wasn’t homeschooled – if Dad wasn’t who he was – I might be able to ask a friend.
I was beginning to think I had upset you, his text reads.
I bite down, wondering how to reply.
Do you text all your potential clients this much?
I have to know if this is a regular thing for him.
No, he simply responds.
I imagine it in his voice, the husky quality of it, certain I can feel his breath moving over me.
Then why me? And why did you read my poetry?
If I answered honestly, he replied, you’d block my number. You’re only nineteen….
Trust me, that number doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about me.
I’m sure you’re right. I imagine him typing fast, eager to speak with me, his tatted arms swelling with muscles. But it doesn’t change the fact I’ve got twenty-two years on you.
Why does my age matter? What exactly are we talking about here?
I’m sending the texts faster and faster, mostly to stop myself from chickening out. If I let the text sit there for longer than a few seconds, the nerves will overwhelm me.