Series: Cobalt Empire Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 234
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 226965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1135(@200wpm)___ 908(@250wpm)___ 757(@300wpm)
My heart jumps as he slides my backpack off my shoulder. I ignore the goose bumps forming on my arms to say, “You live in a well-guarded castle. I’m surprised they didn’t strip me to see if I’m wearing Cobalt4Ever panties.”
“Did they pat you down?” Concern darkens his baby blues.
“No,” I say. “I’m just messing with you. It wasn’t that bad.” But his worry about my well-being is a flutter-kick in my lungs. It’s weird how much I like it.
Ben is staring at Beckett, and his older brother comes around the kitchen island to tell him, “Have your bodyguard escort your friends up here next time.” He puts a calming hand on Ben’s shoulder, then says on his way out, “If Eliot throws a condom at you, tell him I said—” He speaks in French.
Ben laughs from his chest, then replies in the same language. His luminous smile descends on me. It somehow makes me feel included and not on the outskirts, despite knowing zero percent of what they said.
A thought passes over me in an engulfing wave. Is this what it’s like to feel loved? Or is this just run-of-the-mill infatuation? How would I even know the difference?
Once Beckett is gone, Ben loops me in. “He said to tell Eliot that he doesn’t need to be the condom Santa, gifting protection, when he fucks too much to spare one.”
I almost smile, but I’m too stuck on how much Ben trusts me. He’s giving me so much info about his brothers—when maybe Beckett spoke in French to keep Eliot’s sex life a secret from me.
My heart keeps swelling. I follow Ben as he brings my backpack to the pull-out. Couch cushions are already stacked near the floor-length windows. The glittering, mesmeric city-view nearly siphons oxygen from my lungs.
At nighttime, everything sparkles.
Wow.
He sets my backpack on the unfurled mattress. “My brothers know we’re not together,” he says, “and that you got booted from your apartment and just needed a place to crash.”
I nod a couple times, trying not to frown at how easily he said, “We’re not together.” Of course we’re not. It’s a fact I haven’t tried to overturn. Neither has he.
I glance around. “Has he been pelting condoms at all your friends?”
“You’re the only one I’ve ever brought to their place.” Ben reenters the kitchen, not making a big deal about me being the first, but I notice how he didn’t call this apartment his place.
This is still a temporary living situation for him. He hasn’t earned enough tips to pack up and find better housing in the area yet.
Ben spins around to tell me, “I’m sorry about downstairs.”
“It’s fine,” I assure, trailing after him while he nears the fridge. “Really, I should’ve just let you come meet me. Lesson learned. Having a Cobalt sidekick isn’t the worst thing in the world, especially if that Cobalt is you.”
His smile stretches to sexier levels. “I’d say wise choice, Fisher, but you’d be choosing the last picked Cobalt.”
“Well, you know what they say”—I lean on the sink—“saving the best for last.”
I watch his expression go gentle on me, yet our gazes crash together like we’re the turbulent sea. I chew on the corner of my lip, my pulse thumping.
He scrapes his fingers through his wavy hair, then clears arousal out of his throat. God, that might be my favorite noise on earth, which is so dumb. There are a billion other noises that should be better—like the sound of the snare and bass when I drum to “She” by Green Day.
“Security has just been tighter than usual.” Ben rests his shoulders on the fridge, not turning away from me but not bridging the distance either. “I’m not as famous as Xander or Charlie. But our parents still worry about all of us getting kidnapped and extorted for money.”
“Oh to be that famous,” Tom suddenly appears in the kitchen. Ben and I quickly tear our gazes off each other.
Tension ramps up more. I rotate to the sink, combatting the impulse to stick my flaming face beneath the faucet. It’s good Tom is here—not that Ben and I were about to do anything normal friends wouldn’t do.
Tom plops on the barstool, only wearing black drawstring pants. A tattoo of a black skull with red devil horns is inked over his heart.
Must be new-ish.
I definitely would’ve noticed that tattoo on YouTube. He’ll sometimes peel off his T-shirts during high-octane performances. I’m almost positive he has millions of views online for his arresting stage presence alone. Prickly feelings toward him aside, the dude is talented.
He has the “it” factor. Which is why I’m salty he didn’t think I was worthy enough for the drumming position. Maybe I did want Tom’s approval, okay. It would’ve been nice to be validated.
Now, if he gave it—I’d grind it into the garbage disposal.