Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48680 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
“Out to eat. Alone?” She raises her eyebrow.
Okay, so most of my reasons for not talking is because I’m afraid where all this will lead. But part of me might enjoy torturing her too. Just a little bit. “No,” I say, trying to hide my smirk. If she won’t let up, I can at least throw her off the scent.
“Ugh, you’re the worst!” She throws up her hands. “What is he, some kind of spy? Is he part of a secret government organization here to investigate me, is that why you can’t tell me anything?”
“He’s not spying on you, don’t worry.” I grin.
“So he’s spying on someone.” She makes a fake pondering face, scratching her chin in exaggeration. “Oh, is it Mrs. Bishop on second? She’s always seemed sketchy to me. Like, she has a Greek accent but she speaks Croatian? What’s the deal there?”
“I’m pretty sure she is Croatian,” I point out.
Erin waves me off. “Where even is Croatia anyway? Is that a real place? Did she invent it as a cover story while she’s here to spy on local university students?”
“Yes, because The Fashion Institute of Design is just a hotbed of spy-worthy political conspiracy theorists.”
“Girl, you have no idea,” she deadpans, and we both laugh. Then she plops down in the seat beside me with a sigh. “Come on, though, seriously. Why don’t you want to share details? I love sharing details, that’s the best part of dating! Well, that and the sex. But sometimes even then, talking about it afterward is better.” She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, god, was that it? Was he bad? Did you have to sneak out his window at one in the morning?” She pats my hand reassuringly. “Been there, honey, no shame in that game.”
I snort. “No, Erin, he wasn’t bad.”
Her eyes light up. “So you’ve hooked up already.”
“No!” I groan and shake my head. “I mean, kind of. A little. Not really. Just making out.” And sucking him off under the table of a fancy restaurant. And him finger-fucking me in the driver’s seat of his BMW. And then sticking a vibrator inside me and torturing me the whole ride home.
“Okay, good start. He’s good at making out, that’s promising.” She smirks.
“Good at making out” would be the understatement of the year. I can still feel his hands all over me, his mouth on mine. I can still hear his voice in my head. You’re mine, Bonnie. And fuck, how I want to be.
When I zone back in, Erin’s watching me with a knowing smile. “Very good, apparently,” she says, and I laugh, but I don’t correct her. “Well, fine, keep your secretive secrets. But this new boy better treat you well, or I swear I will find him and I will end him. That’s all I’m saying,” she adds as she pushes out of her chair.
The mental image of tiny little Erin going up against rich playboy gazillionaire Pierce does bring a brighter smile to my face. And hell, after the way he dumped me in front of the house last night, with barely a parting word, I can’t say I’d hate watching the fight go down.
Though I’d much rather her not need to beat him up. I’d much rather he fuck me the way he started to in that car, drive me wild and fill me to the brink with pleasure, and then . . .
And then pay me and get of out my life, I tell myself firmly. That’s the deal here. Nothing more. He’s a hookup, end of story.
Maybe it’s a good thing he dumped me so summarily last night. It shows he’s got his head on straight. It gives me a chance to screw mine on tighter, and stop fantasizing about a one-time thing.
“Oh, by the way.” Erin turns back to me and I tense, ready for another round of rapid-fire questioning. How much more of this can I take? But she doesn’t lay into me with more questions. She just drops a stack of mail on the counter beside my plate of eggs. “These came for you yesterday.”
One glance at the top of the pile sours my mood faster than Pierce’s non-goodbye. Because I recognize that return address.
Gram’s care facility.
I rip open the topmost envelope, and my stomach sinks through the floor, all the way down into Mrs. Bishop’s second floor apartment.
Fuck.
I thought I’d been keeping up relatively well, paying this off in full when I can and in installments when I’m running late. But the unpaid bill in front of me is three times the rate of last month. I dig through the pile of envelopes, find another letter from them and tear that open.
Shit.
They’re raising my premium because I missed too many payments over the summer. I fume, ready to call and argue, but they’ve included a list of payments below, and when I think back, I realize, shit. They’re right. I thought I only missed a month, but now that I think about it, I haven’t sent a full payment since last June. The diner slows down over the summer months, without the usual crowd of college kids stumbling in late at night to binge on nacho fries and $5 alcoholic milkshakes.