Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24900 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
I shake my head, but I’m smiling, too. “It’s a living.” It’s actually the best job in the world. I’m just ready to have someone to share it with—her.
She takes a bite of a taco, and the thing explodes in her hands, sending crumbs falling everywhere. I can’t help it. I reach over, dust some of the bits off her cheek. She freezes. I freeze. It’s maybe a two-second touch, but my heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid she can hear it. Her eyes go wide, ocean blue, and there’s a tiny hitch in her breathing.
We’re too close. We’ve always been too close. I should pull back, crack a joke, anything.
But my hand lingers. “You missed a spot,” I say, voice pitched low.
She swallows, and for a second, I swear she’s about to lean in. Instead, she clears her throat and looks away, face flushed. “I’m a mess,” she mutters, brushing more crumbs onto her leggings.
The show on TV blares in the background, but all I can focus on is the tiny gap between us and the warm coconut-scented heat of her skin. This is hell. I’ve been in love with her for six years, and I’m too goddamn chicken shit to make a move.
We finish dinner, switching over to a rerun of some supernatural drama she claims is “the pinnacle of trash TV.” At some point, she leans into me, head on my shoulder, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I drape my arm around her, just barely, and she doesn’t pull away. My whole goddamn body is on fire, and all I can think is, If I don’t kiss her tonight, I might actually explode.
But then the credits roll, and she stretches, arms above her head, shirt riding up to expose a flash of pale skin. She doesn’t notice. “Thanks for dinner, Natie Boo,” she says, voice small.
That fucking nickname actually causes my cock to harden. I’m a goddamn mess. “Anytime.” I force myself to stand, hands jammed into my pockets. I need to get away from the temptation. Stat. “Want me to lock up on my way out?”
Her mouth opens and closes, then she exhales and nods. “Night.”
I leave, walking down the hall with the same mix of relief and regret I always feel after seeing her. This thing between us—it’s like holding a live wire. Sooner or later, it’s going to fry me. And yet, I wouldn’t put it down for anything.
In the car, I just sit there for a minute, staring at the windshield, thinking about the way she fit against my side. About the way she almost, maybe, leaned in. About the look in her eyes.
Maybe after this damn auction, I’ll finally say it. Or maybe I’ll keep pretending.
My house is cold, clinical, and not at all like Roni’s.
Every surface is polished, every corner curated. I hired some interior designer from Chicago and told him I wanted it to feel like I could live in a magazine. He delivered giant open spaces, black marble counters, and a kitchen with more gear than most restaurants. Every inch is expensive, impressive, and colder than the ass end of a January morning.
Which is exactly what hits me when I walk in and drop my keys on the stone countertop. The foyer echoes. The lights turn on automatically, casting their custom-programmed glow on leather and chrome and glass. It all looks exactly like the photos, which is another way of saying it feels about as lived-in as a display model.
I toss my wallet and phone onto a tray and wander toward the back, where the entire wall is glass. The backyard view has a swimming pool with a waterfall and tons of trees for privacy.
Roni’s place always smells like lavender and vanilla. She has that ancient blue couch that swallows you whole, and every surface is scattered with mugs and paperbacks and little pieces of her—fucking perfect.
I think about her laugh, the way she curls her legs up to her chest, and fantasize about what it would be like if she lived here, in my too-big, too-perfect house. I imagine her leaving a trail of sweaters, her scent clinging to the sheets, her toothbrush parked next to mine.
I take a long pull of beer and imagine life with Roni living here with me. I picture it all the time.
When I finally crash on the bed, the sheets are cold, and I stare at the ceiling for a while, willing myself not to text her. Not to do something stupid like tell her what’s really in my head.
But then I drift, and the dream comes, just like it has every night for years.
It’s always the same. I’m in the club, but it’s empty, except for her. She’s behind the bar, pouring drinks, wearing a little black dress that looks like her curvy body was poured into. But in the dream, she’s not shy. She leans over the bar, lips red, and crooks her finger. I go to her like I’m on a string, and the second I get close, she grabs my tie and pulls me down until our mouths crash.