Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 48808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 244(@200wpm)___ 195(@250wpm)___ 163(@300wpm)
"Maybe that's the point."
Shit. I am not mentally or emotionally prepared to deal with Chloe drunk. She's feisty on a good day. Drunk, she's a little firecracker. But I bite my tongue when she refills her glass again, refusing to prove her right by telling her what to do yet again.
We eat in silence for several long moments before Thanos interrupts, peering over the edge of the table like he wants to know why the fuck we're keeping the good shit out of reach.
"Here, buddy," Chloe says, laughing as she cuts a large bite of chicken and holds it out to him.
He rolls one eye in my direction as if to tell me to get my shit together and then paces around the table to her. He takes the chicken from her hand, oh so gently, and then pads back to his bed, happy with his treat.
She's watching him, but I'm watching her. The wine is definitely hitting her hard. Her eyes are a little glassy, and her smile is a touch fuzzy. Her cheeks are flushed.
She's so goddamn beautiful.
Christ, how am I supposed to survive living under the same roof with her for the next several days? I can't. I know I can't. I'll snap, cross the line, and any hope I have of rebuilding our friendship will crumble to dust. She'll realize that I've been in love with her for most of my life, and then what?
If she doesn't kick my ass herself, her father will. Or mine. Or Wyatt. There are ninety ways this could end, and most of them are disastrous, not just for us but for the bonds our families have forged over the years.
"You should think about heading back to San Francisco tomorrow," I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
Her smile slips as she glances across the table at me. "And here we go again," she mutters, her lips pursing. "You're human for all of five minutes, and then it's right back to telling me what to do."
"That's not what this is, but I know you, princess," I say quietly, holding her gaze. "You aren't the kind of girl who runs from her problems."
"Who says I'm running?"
"You ran all the way to San Diego."
She glances away, her chin thrust out in that infuriatingly stubborn way of hers, the one that says she doesn't want to hear a goddamn word I have to say. But she can't hide the way her hand trembles when she reaches for her wine glass.
"What happened, Chloe? Talk to me."
She stubbornly refuses.
"Please," I rasp, willing to beg at this point.
"He's been fantasizing about me."
"What?" My brows furrow. "Who?"
"My boss." She cringes. "Ex-boss."
"What the fuck?" Something dark and violent whips through me. From what I remember, that shady motherfucker is at least forty years older than she is. "What did he do?"
"Sent me a bunch of two a.m. texts detailing his fantasies," she mumbles before taking a big gulp of wine. "And then asked if I wanted to make them a reality so he didn't have to jerk off alone in his office while watching me."
Jesus Christ.
My hand tightens around my fork hard enough to bend the metal as rage courses through me. I'm going to hunt the son of a bitch down and kill him with my own two hands.
"I sent them to his wife and then went in long enough to pack my desk before I walked out," she whispers. "Before I even made it home, he was calling Dad, telling him that I just quit without explanation and that he was so worried about me."
"That grimy motherfucker," I snarl, breathing hard.
Chloe looks up at me, equal parts vulnerability and rage in her gaze. "I know how my dad will react if I tell him what really happened, so I came here instead. I figured it'd give me time to figure out what to do so my dad doesn't go to prison." Her bottom lip quivers even though her eyes are dry. "He wouldn't look very good in orange, Trystan."
"You need to tell him, baby."
"He's the one who got me that job. Donny was his friend." Her voice cracks. "He'll kill him if he ever sees those messages."
"Jesus." I drop my fork, reaching for my wine glass. I drain it, trying to think. I know Colton well, and he isn't an irrational man. But he is protective as hell. If the messages are bad enough that she's afraid to even tell him about them, it's a problem. A big fucking problem.
But it isn't one she should be handling alone, either.
"Do you want me to talk to him for you, princess?"
"What?" She gapes at me like she thinks I've lost it. "Why would I want you to talk to him?"
That shouldn't hurt, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't. It fucking kills me that I'm no longer someone she trusts with her problems. She's only telling me now because she's three glasses of wine deep and I pushed her.