Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 442(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
I watch silently as he grabs the pen and notepad I keep on my night table and scribbles down a series of numbers across the top. It’s the chicken scratch of a typical man, but it’s definitely legible—whether or not I want it to be is another question entirely.
“Use this to call me when you want to have some more.” Everything inside me stops as he leans forward and places a gentle kiss to the apple of my cheek and tucks the paper into my palm.
He shuffles out of the room then, still settling his pants into place on his hips and then buttoning the open shirt on his shoulders. It takes all the effort I can manage to keep myself from jumping from the bed and chasing him down the hall just to read him the riot act again.
I feel volatile and completely unstable and, quite frankly, insane. How in the fucking world can someone spend the night doing the things we just did, in the positions we did, and not feel some small ounce of…connection?
How on earth can he walk away so easily?
Manic, I push out of the bed and start to stalk in the direction of the hallway, but I stop myself when it hits me. Months of forced self-reflection courtesy of Dr. Winters have apparently honed my skills.
I’m angry and emotional and undeniably confused, yes, but…well, he hasn’t actually done anything wrong. He’s been upfront and honest, and I’m completely responsible for the consequences of doing this again after watching him walk out the first time. I knew. I knew that this was a man who’d walked out before and was just as likely to do it again, and still, I chose to subject myself to it again.
And what do you even expect him to do instead of leaving your apartment after two hot sex marathons? Wake you up with flowers and breakfast in bed?
Besides the intense orgasms only he seems to be able to give me, I don’t necessarily know what I’m even wanting from him at this point. Bottom line, I signed on for this, willingly, whether I want to admit it or not. I practically stalked the man to make it happen, for goodness’ sake.
I glance down at the paper in my hand as the front door to my apartment clicks shut, and I study the numbers with stark precision.
The ball is in my court, and the future is in my hands. Jude Winslow is the good-time guy, and he’s ready and willing to keep having them with me. But it’s never going to check all the boxes on my list, and it’s not going to end with the two of us tucked away behind a symbolic white picket fence.
I have to decide if just fun is something I can handle or not.
And right now…the truth is, I don’t know.
Tuesday, March 13th
Jude
Two kids race past me on scooters, yelling riotously, and I lean deeper into the brick column at my back to avoid getting skimmed by their lanky limbs.
“Don’t be a little shit, Hunter!” one of them yells to the other, earning the ire of the school administrator at the top of the stairs.
“Excuse me, Byron Hawthorn! Don’t make me call your mother.”
I laugh quietly and look back down at my phone to check the time. It’s two minutes past six, and Lexi should be out here any minute. I briefly click through my call log, just to make sure I didn’t miss one from anyone, and then do the same in my messages. Both come up empty, and I brush aside the bothersome notion that there’s anything wrong with that.
I don’t actually spend that much time on my phone when I’m off the clock, and often with my brothers, I’m not the first one to start a message thread. I have a couple buddies I occasionally get beers with, but for the most part, I spend a lot of my time alone. Traveling the country to different club openings, relaxing in my downtime, and spending time with my family have always been my priorities. Well, all that, along with the occasional hookup, of course.
So, it really doesn’t make any sense at all why I feel this way—expectant. I shake my head to clear all the weird thoughts and tuck my phone back into my pocket where it belongs.
My niece will be out soon, and her smart-as-a-whip mind will give me more than enough to concentrate on. She’s normally out by now, but I’m not in a rush. Even at thirty-six years old, being outside of an elementary school like this brings waves of nostalgia crashing over me.
It’s the same dynamics, the same principal at the door with her keys and walkie-talkie, and the same unadulterated joy of childhood. I like getting a little taste of it occasionally. It reminds me not to take life so seriously and to just enjoy the ride. Time truly flies, whether you’re having fun or not. So, I prefer to have it.