Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Ever since he moved in next door, I've been hearing the most random things. Half the time, I don't know if I'm actually hearing them, or if I just think I am. He showed up at the bookstore and made me paranoid. Now, I'm hearing things.
At least, I think I am.
The way he looked at me yesterday when I brought up the weird noises, though… For a split second, he looked guilty, like he knew exactly what I was talking about. Like he was lying.
He's hiding something. I just don't know what.
It's driving me insane.
"Asshole!"
I jump so high my feet actually leave the floor, and then I press my face to the glass, trying to get a better look at his place. It's still dark and quiet, but…that shout definitely came from his house. And I didn't imagine it.
"Holy crap," I whisper.
There's a woman over there with him, and she does not sound happy at all.
"I'm telling you," I hiss to Sarah, peering around the corner at the gorgeous, infuriating man pretending to browse the shelves again. I'm almost pretty sure that said gorgeous, infuriating man is stalking me. There's also a high likelihood that he has someone tied up in his basement right now. "He's following me."
"Olive," Sarah says through laughter. "I love you, but you're delusional."
"Oh, yeah? Then why is he here again?"
She widens her eyes, looking around the store. "I don't know. Maybe he likes to read?"
"Right," I snort. "He just happens to move in next to me. And right after I start hearing weird noises from his place, he just happens to start showing up here regularly."
I'm freaking out about the screaming from last night. Either he's into some really kinky shit, or he's a serial killer. I thought about it all night. There are no other logical explanations. There just aren't.
"It's a bookstore."
"Exactly!" I whisper-hiss. "And we sell romance. Monster fuckers shop here, not—" I wave my hand in his general direction—"potential fucking monsters."
Her lips quirk into an amused grin. "You like him."
I gasp, outraged. "Take it back."
"Can't," she says, inching around me into the store. I try to grab her to haul her back behind the counter, just so she's out of the line of fire in case he is here to kidnap me or murder me or whatever his serial-killer-kink is, but she dodges me, hurrying around the counter.
"Hey, Mason. Welcome back!"
Great. Just great. My best friend is going to be murdered, and it'll be my fault. I mutter a curse beneath my breath and then rush out, refusing to let her wade into danger alone. We ride together; I guess we die together.
Am I entirely surprised we're going to die in a spicy romance bookstore? No. It's on brand for the two of us. And, truthfully, it's better than dying tied up in his basement.
"Oh, hey," he says, turning with a copy of The Notebook in his hands. His gaze flicks over Sarah before coming to me. I do not miss a step. The carpet trips me. There's a difference.
"Hey, Rebel. How's Oscar?"
"Why?" I ask, ignoring how damn hot he is. I mean, statistically speaking, there has to be at least one drop-dead gorgeous serial killer out there, right? I guess Mason is it.
That's just my luck. The Universe tried to warn me away from dating, but I just had to tempt fate by flirting with the dangerous man next door. Now, I'm going to pay for it.
He looks caught off guard by my question. "Uh, just wondered how he's been doing."
"Still vicious," I say.
"Oscar?" Sarah laughs loudly. "Oscar is harmless. He just thinks he's scary." She and I seriously need to have the stranger-danger talk again.
"So…I have to finish something up, but Olive can help you find whatever you need," Sarah says, nudging me toward him with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Payback is going to be swift and vicious.
I shoot her a death glare, but she's already scurrying away, leaving me to meet my demise on my own.
Mason grins at me. "I'm looking for a specific book. Think you can help me?"
"What book is it?"
"I can't remember the name," he mutters. "But it's about a man who kidnaps a woman and keeps her chained to his bed until she agrees to marry him."
Either he's fucking with me, or he really does have someone chained to his bed. Why is it so hard to tell these things? Evil should really come with a warning label, like trigger warnings.
"Who wrote it?" I ask.
"Will you strangle me if I admit that I don't remember?" he asks, his smile sheepish.
"Well, it definitely wasn't Nicholas Sparks."
"What?"
I nod at the book in his hands.
"Oh." He laughs. "This isn't for me."
"Girlfriend? Wife?"
"Nah, don't have either of those." It might be my imagination, but I swear I hear him mumble, "yet" under his breath.