Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
But I guess I’ll find out this morning. I throw the fluffy white duvet off, and when I look down, I realize I’m wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxers, both so massive on me that I could fit two Kayleighs inside. My blonde hair is wild, a halo of knots and static; there’s a tiny little bit of mascara on the edge of one eye, but otherwise, I look more or less okay.
In the hallway, the floor is so polished I can see my own feet reflected in the surface. I walk on my toes, so that I resemble a thief tiptoeing about this lovely apartment. But Trevor’s already awake—already standing at the stove with his back to me, one hand steady on a skillet, the other braced on the marble counter. Even from across the room, the geometry of his broad shoulders and the raw, tan sweep of his back hit me like a cannonball: beautiful and muscular, one hundred percent male.
There are two mugs on the counter, both sweating steam, both white and heavy. The kitchen is nothing but straight lines: butcher-block counters, the slab of the island, the six-burner cooktop that looks like something you could use to cauterize wounds. Outside the wall of windows, the city is bright as it just wakes up. Every building is cut glass, every avenue a gash in the grid. Trevor’s penthouse floats above it all, a sealed aquarium for only the rarest, most dangerous men.
I hover for a minute, clutching the hem of my shirt, then slide onto a stool at the island. I pull my knees up and tuck my feet under me so I don’t have to touch the cold. The mug is warm and smells bitter, almost burned. I wrap both hands around it and watch the condensation bead on the marble.
“Eggs?” Trevor says, his voice neutral.
I nod, then realize he isn’t looking at me. “Sure,” I say, as if we’re still playing house, as if he isn’t the reason I feel like every muscle in my body has been wrung out and left to dry.
He plates the eggs without a word, then turns to face me. The way he does it—like a man who expects the world to rotate with him—makes the room tilt. He’s shirtless, pajama pants low on his hips, and his hair is a tangle from sleep, tousled yet ridiculously attractive. There’s a scar just below his left pec, pale and a little jagged, as if he lost a fight with a cat. His eyes are bloodshot, but still that mesmerizing ice-blue, the color of lakes in postcards.
I stare at the eggs. They’re perfect, which almost makes it worse.
We eat in silence. The only sounds are forks on porcelain and the faint, ever-present hum of the city below.
At some point, I realize I’m not breathing.
Finally, I set down my fork, hear it tinkle against the plate, and say, “So…should I say it first?”
He looks at me sideways.
“Say what?”
“Good morning,” I reply with a bright smile. “Or are we not allowed to say that around here.”
He sighs and stares at his plate.
“Good morning, Kayleigh.”
“Good morning, Trevor,” I repeat. “Thank you for making breakfast. These eggs are delicious. I wish I could make eggs as well as you. I also wish we could keep going with the small talk, but I can tell you’re upset about something—”
“I’m not upset,” he says in a dark tone.
“Okaaaay,” I say, dragging the syllable. “Then what it is?”
He’s silent.
“Do you want to talk about last night?”
He still doesn’t speak.
“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I say, and that gets a reaction. My stepbrother lets out a sharp breath, sets his own fork down, and leans back against his chair. His arms are folded, the veins in his forearms standing up in ridges.
“You want to talk about it,” he says.
I swallow. “Yeah. Maybe. Why not? Could be fun.”
He hesitates.
I trace a circle on the rim of my mug with one fingertip, and when I finally get the words out, they sound nothing like me: “You, um. You kissed me everywhere, but you made me sleep in the guest room. You said you were going to ruin me, but then you didn’t. So what happened?”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile, not a frown, just a glitch in the matrix. “You wanted me to?”
“I don’t know,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Maybe. It’s confusing.”
He nods once, like this is what he expected, and then sits there for a long moment, motionless except for the pulse in his jaw.
“I fucked up,” he says, voice so low I have to lean forward to catch it. “I never should have touched you, Kayleigh.”
I grip the mug until my fingers go white. “You already did. Multiple times, I might point out.”