Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I groan. “I wasn’t there to pick up chicks. Do people even say ‘chicks’ anymore?”
“Fine. A chick. To bang. If you want to be pedantic.”
This is an argument I have no interest in winning. She doesn’t need to know that I haven’t picked up “a chick” in a while.
“Coincidence,” I say, more resolutely this time.
“Right,” she says, her eyes widening. “So this is the bit where you apologize for acting like a dickwad.”
I want to raise an issue with the use of the term dickwad, but I have a feeling now’s not the time. “Yeah,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry if I jumped to conclusions.”
She rolls her eyes. “Very poor apologizing. You’re sorry if you jumped to conclusions? You definitely jumped to conclusions. And on top of that, you’ve maligned my character, been rude and aggressive and”—she lowers her voice again—“not nice.”
I pull in a breath. She’s not wrong. I also want to congratulate her on her use of the word maligned. She’s proved me right that a good vocabulary isn’t the preserve of a man in his thirties, but I have a feeling she won’t take that well, either. I’ve already been enough of an asshole without adding condescension to the mix.
“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions and I’ve been rude, and aggressive and… what was it? Oh, yes—not nice.” Although it was the least offensive thing she accused me of, it’s the part that sticks in my gut. Call me an asshole and I can brush it off, but somehow, not nice feels like a bigger deal. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age. Or maybe it’s because this woman… last night was so… intense.
“Better,” she says. “That sounded more like an apology.”
“Enjoy your evening,” I say with a nod. It’s not like I’m expecting to get invited in. Not after the exchange we just had. But if she did ask me in, I’m not sure I could say no.
The click and snap of a door being opened catches my attention, and I whip my head around.
A woman with orange hair tied up with a headscarf puts her head out of the door. “Can you two lovebirds have your argument in your apartment? I’m trying to work in here.” I’m not sure if I imagine it, but a squawking sound comes from behind her. It sounds like an exotic bird. “You see?” she says accusatorily before slamming the door without waiting for our answer.
I turn back to Efa and raise my eyebrows.
“And now you got me in trouble with my neighbors. Be gone.” She sweeps her hands up in dismissal, like I’m completely inconsequential to her. I can’t remember anyone ever treating me that way. Then again, Efa is proving unique in more ways than one.
“See you around, knowing my good luck,” she says.
I let out a chuckle and head to the elevators.
SIX
Efa
My hands shake as I unlock the door of the Park Suite. Obviously, I didn’t tell Marcella that Bennett and I knew each other. In the biblical sense. Still, she knows I’m nervous.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Marcella says. She thinks I’m shaking because I’m concerned Bennett will be inside. And I am nervous, but it’s not nerves making me shake. It’s the memories of hours of nakedness with him, and the half-dozen orgasms he wrung out of me. Then there’s the way that even when he’s being a total arsehole and accusing me of things that are completely and utterly not true, my entire body kinda buzzes when he’s close.
I didn’t expect to see him again and now I’m going to be disappointed if I don’t. “He just got a shock, that’s all. But if he’d checked, he would have seen the tag on the door.” She hangs a sign on the door handle that, from a distance, looks like a Do Not Disturb sign, but actually says housekeeping is servicing your room.
I don’t make the point that I’m ninety-nine point nine percent certain there was no such notice on Bennett’s door. I get the impression that Marcella is just as concerned as me about Bennett filing a complaint against us.
“But we’ll keep the carts outside the room this time, just so he’s clear. And we’re later today. He’s probably gone to his offices or got a meeting somewhere.”
I try to remember if he told me what he does for a living, but nothing springs to mind.
“I’ll start on the bathroom. You start in the living room, then we’ll do the bed together,” she says.
I head into the living room and start to empty the bins. There’s nothing in there but a beer bottle and a flyer for an off-Broadway show he must have been given on the street. Not that I’m deliberately searching his rubbish.
I’m just curious about him. He fucks like a champ, but he’s paranoid as all holy hell.