Series: Torn and Bound Duet Series by K. Webster
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“Wanna tell me what has you drunk in the early afternoon?” he asks, his voice filled with concern.
The room is still slightly spinning, so I close my eyes and drop my head to Brayden’s shoulder, needing it to stop so I don’t throw up.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumble, nuzzling my face into him.
“Okay, but at least drink the coffee. It will help sober you up.”
I do as he says, drinking every last drop. When the cup is empty, he takes it from me and sets it on the coffee table. His arm comes around me and I close my eyes, my last thought being how warm and comfortable he is.
When I open my eyes, for a split second, I wonder if getting drunk and Brayden taking care of me was a dream. Until I sit up and glance over and find him sitting on the couch, typing away on his phone.
“Good morning,” he says, looking up. “Or should I say good evening since it’s already six o’clock?”
“Ugh,” I groan, covering my face with my hands in embarrassment. Kill me now.
Brayden laughs. “No dying until you’ve helped me bring up my grades.”
Great, now I’m speaking my thoughts out loud.
Having drunk a ton of alcohol and then slept it off, I suddenly need to pee. “I’ll be right back,” I say, standing slowly to make sure I’m no longer drunk. When the room stays still, I sigh in relief that I’m safe to walk on my own.
After going to the bathroom, I wash my hands and brush my teeth, then run a brush through my hair, so I’m not a complete hot mess.
As I’m walking back out to my living room, there’s a knock on my door. I swing my gaze over to him, as if he would know who’s on the other side.
“I’ll get it,” he says. “It’s for me.” He shrugs and stands, and I wonder if maybe this is a dream.
He speaks briefly to someone and then closes the door, walking back inside with a bag of food. The smell wafts through the air and my stomach grumbles.
“Figured you might be hungry,” he says, setting the bag on the table and opening it.
I stare at him in shock, because really, who is this guy?
“You do like Chinese, don’t you?” he asks, sitting back on the couch and looking at me. “You had like fifty of their takeout menus on your counter.”
“I love Chinese.”
“Good. Let’s eat.” He takes the containers out of the bag and spreads them out, then hands me a pair of chopsticks.
I sit next to him and open up the container closest to me. “Mmm, chicken lo mien. My favorite.” I dip my chopsticks in and pull out some chicken and noodles, shoving them into my mouth. It’s so delicious I can’t help the moan that escapes. He watches with amusement as I pick out any green onions hiding in there.
“You okay over there?” he finally asks, raising a brow.
“Oh yeah.” I take another bite. “So good. Thank you for this.”
He nods. “No problem.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, when I remember why he came over in the first place.
“Do you have your school stuff? I can help you study.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Sorry about missing our session. I wasn’t bailing. Just having a bad moment.”
“I know all about those,” he mutters around a forkful of food.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Do you?” he volleys.
“Not really.”
“Same,” he agrees. “So, you and Drew…”
“Really? That’s your conversation changer? Most people ask about the weather.” I take one last bite of my noodles and drop my chopsticks, full.
“I’m not most people.” He closes the containers and places them into the bag.
“And I’m not kissing and telling.” I stand and grab the bag. “Grab your school stuff so we can get started.”
Brayden wasn’t lying. He really is serious about getting his grades up. It seems as though he hangs on my every word, soaking up the information as we study. I’m used to the other students I tutor behaving this way, but not him.
“What?” he asks after a solid hour of working. “You keep looking at me weird.”
Heat floods across my cheeks. “I am not.”
“Okay.” He laughs, shaking his head. “I believe you.”
“Stop,” I mutter, poking him with my bare foot.
His massive, calloused hand grips my foot, pulling it toward him. A tingle of awareness shoots up my leg. “You started it,” he teases.
“You can’t take my foot hostage to get information out of me,” I grumble, cocking my eyebrow at him, insinuating he better let go.
“So there is information to get?” He gently rubs his thumb across the bottom of my foot, flashing me his maddening smirk.
“If there was, you wouldn’t get that information by tickling my foot,” I sass.
“I’m just rubbing on you, Mia. Nothing more.”
The husky, heated way he says those words has my brain jumbled and my heart galloping in my chest.