Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 25616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25616 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 102(@250wpm)___ 85(@300wpm)
“Am I going to see you again?” she whispers.
“I sure as fuck hope so,” I say with a laugh. “Otherwise, I might not know how to go on.”
“I’m only here for two weeks,” she says. “Until Willow and Greg—Shit!”
I lean back as she goes rigid in my arms. “What is it?”
“Munchies!” she says with panic in her eyes. “I need to get him his medication!”
“Okay,” I say, trying to calm her down.
But she’s too wound up to listen.
“I gotta go!” she says, pulling away. Every instinct in my body is urging me to stay with her and keep her in sight, but she’s as slippery as she is fun. “I’m not flighty. I’m responsible.”
It’s the last thing I hear her say before she dissolves into the packed crowd, moving with impressive speed.
I’m much larger, so it’s harder for me to follow and get around everyone.
“Amber!” I shout over the music. “Amber, wait up!”
My heart is pounding when I finally get to the door, and I feel like I might be sick when I see her slip into a taxi and disappear from my life as quickly as she crashed into it.
No...
It can’t end like this.
But it won’t. I have to know it won’t.
We’re soulmates, and this is just the beginning.
I’ll make damn sure of that.
I’ll burn down the world before I let that girl slip out of my life.
My birthday wish will come true.
Amber will be mine.
CHAPTER SIX
Amber
By the time I burst into Willow’s condo, I’m sweaty, out of breath, and dangerously close to having a panic attack.
“Munchies?!”
Silence.
I kick off my shoes, drop my luggage, and run through the place like my life depends on it. “Munchieeeees!”
He finally waddles into view down the hallway, looking exactly how I remembered him from the pictures Willow is always sending me—like a grumpy little warlock who got trapped in a shag carpet.
“Holy Fancy Feast,” I whisper, pressing a hand to my chest. “You’re alive.”
He blinks and then flops onto the floor with a demanding look. If he could talk, I’m sure he would be hissing, ‘Pet me now, woman.’
I hurry over and drop onto the hardwood floor beside him. My heart is still pounding from all of the panic, but it’s winding down now that I know he’s okay.
Muchies is so odd-looking. I love it. His face is so flat it looks like it was ironed at birth, his fur is unruly, like a haunted mop, and his pungent smell is like a complicated blend of tuna breath and something I can only describe as musty vintage carpet.
“Hi, buddy,” I say as I pet him. “I’m your Auntie Amber.”
He licks his paw. Then coughs.
Right. Meds.
I dig around the kitchen until I find the extensive list Willow left me on the counter, and my jaw drops.
The list goes on for pages. Plural.
I scan the list as I mumble to myself, holding it out at arm’s length like it has personally offended me. “Three pills, two droppers, and a shot? How are you still alive, cat?”
I get everything in order, line it all up, and look at him. He looks at me. We both know this isn’t going to end well.
Ten minutes later, I’ve been clawed a dozen times, drooled on, and hissed at more times than I can count.
He’s got drool on his whiskers. I’ve got blood on my wrist.
This is my life now. For the next two weeks, anyway.
“Okay,” I say with a sigh as I collapse onto the massive sectional in the living room. “We survived. Barely.”
I look around and finally take in the place. Holy. Crap.
It’s stunning.
Glass walls. A full skyline view. A grand piano in the corner, because apparently my tone-deaf sister now plays piano? There are bookshelves taller than my childhood home and an old modernized La Cornue Range oven larger than my car in the kitchen.
I’m exhausted, but I have to see the rest of this place. It takes a while.
There are four bedrooms. Four bathrooms.
“What the hell?” I mutter as I stick my head into another luxurious walk-in shower with a giant rain showerhead mounted from the ceiling and all sorts of jets and nozzles for the perfect steam.
Now, I know why rich people never leave their houses. If Logan’s place is half as nice as this, I understand him more and feel bad for shaming him about never seeing the city. Why would you when you can steam in this thing until you turn into a human prune?
“This is insane,” I whisper as I wander into a guest bedroom that has enough room for a king-sized bed, a bunch of furniture, and has a bathroom and walk-in closet on top of it. “I thought New York apartments were supposed to be the size of a shoebox.”
This one’s a department store.
But even with all the jaw-dropping finishes and the tub in the ensuite bathroom big enough to host a pool party, my mind is somewhere else.