Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I’m a fucking sucker.
Up before dawn, I’m standing on the porch of the big house with a can of red paint, brushing it on the door. Next, I’ll repair and paint the porch. Because when you buy a house that was built a hundred years ago, you buy all the problems that come with it. It’s pretty, with good bones, but it needs a lot of work. Work I don’t have time for.
After applying the second coat, I walk home to let it dry, pour myself a cup of coffee, and stare out the window.
You’re turning into a motherfucking stalker. Shaking my head, I sip the coffee. I might be disgusted with myself, but that doesn’t mean I’ll walk away from this window. Just like the other night, I want to catch a glimpse of her. I don’t like her. I don’t want to have anything to do with her, but dammit, she’s like a freaking drug.
It’s ridiculous.
Sure enough, not five minutes later, Jules comes walking down the block. She takes this walk every morning at this time. Sometimes she looks sad. Other times, it looks like she’s talking to herself. But every single time, she slows down to look at the house across the street, and I know that she strolls into the past every time, thinking about the conversations we had when we were kids about the place.
She’s wearing green shorts, and I can see where she tore the flesh on her shin. It’s scabbed up, bruised and looks like it hurt like a bitch. Seeing her with blood on her made my own blood boil. I may not trust her, but my wildfire being hurt is not a fucking option.
So I fixed her steps. I shouldn’t have. She’s not my problem, but the thought of her hurting herself like that again doesn’t sit well with me.
Today, she comes to a complete stop and turns her back to me, facing the freshly painted door, her hands on her hips. She’s on my side of the street, right in front of my house.
What was supposed to be our house.
I have the window open, so I can hear her breath coming fast from the exercise. Her ass looks damn fucking irresistible in those green shorts, and I want to lean in and kiss her cheek.
Press my face to her neck.
Pull her against me.
For fuck’s sake. I don’t like her, can’t have her, yet it’s like every molecule in my body is a magnet and she’s the only thing it seeks.
“Something’s different,” she whispers, and the rasp of her voice goes right to my cock.
Christ Jesus.
“The door. They painted the door.” She swallows and leans forward, like she’s trying to see it better, and in doing so, she pushes her ass out farther. Her long, lean legs stretch, showing me muscle and smooth skin, and I have to adjust my cock in my pants. “I like the red. Jazzes it up.”
Why am I suddenly proud of myself for choosing a fucking paint color?
“Needs flowers,” she mutters to herself, then shrugs a shoulder, as if she’s pushing that thought aside. Jules always did talk to herself. I always found it endearing. “I wonder what’s behind that window on the second floor.”
My eyes follow her gaze, and I take a sip of my coffee.
It’s a bathroom. Needs to be gutted.
Suddenly, her phone rings, and Juliet jumps into the air and lets out a little squeak. She’s shifted so I can see her profile, and her brows pull together as she looks at the screen.
Who the fuck is calling her at six in the morning?
“What.” Her voice is devoid of any emotion as she answers the call. I tilt my head to the side, intrigued.
I’ve never heard that tone from her before.
“No. You’re not allowed to call or text me. Email only. You know the conditions. I’m not sending you any more money this month. Figure it out for yourself.”
She hangs up and starts walking again, but after she slips the phone in her back pocket, she wipes a tear from her cheek, and that pisses me off.
Who the fuck just made my wildfire cry?
“How much money do you think I have?” Birdie asks me. She’s perched on my lap in the backyard of Bridger and Dani’s house, eating a hot dog, having a conversation like she’s thirty.
“About ten thousand,” I reply and take a bite of my steak. “Give or take.”
“Not that much,” she says and bites her hot dog. “I could buy a house with that much.”
My lips twitch, and I lean in to kiss her cheek. “Okay, I give. How much do you have?”
“Eight dollars and twenty-seven cents. I’m saving.”
“What are you saving for?”
She scrunches up her nose and looks around to see if anyone is listening.
This should be good.
“A puppy.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You’re just gonna go out and buy a puppy without your parents knowing about it?”