Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Who is that?” Riley demands from somewhere near my hip because I almost dropped the phone.
“What are you doing here?” My heart seems to slide through my insides, settling in the space between my legs. I cross my legs at the ankles, oh so casually, as though he might hear it thrumming away down there.
“Isn’t it obvious?” His gaze moves over me, stroking like a caress.
“Oh my God!” Riley squawks. “Is that the unicorn?”
“Shut up,” I hiss into the phone as I swing back to the hall. “If you wanted to know who’s at the door, you should’ve installed a Ring doorbell.” I end the call, setting my phone on the thin hall console.
Oliver moves back a pace as I step into the front street, pulling the door almost closed behind me.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” I strain to keep my tone even, conscious of passing foot traffic as my heart pounds away in its highly inappropriate resting place.
“Ah.” Oliver slips his hands into his pockets, his gaze dipping to the cobblestones. “I see,” he murmurs as he scuffs the sole of his expensive loafer. “I’d hoped you might be pleased to see me.”
Pleasure pokes me in the chest. “That I am not buying.” I’m digging it, but not buying it.
“I’m sorry?” His gaze lifts, and he blinks almost owlishly.
“This whole . . .” I wave my finger over whatever this is meant to be. “I’m so adorably embarrassed, floppy-haired rom-com male lead.”
“My hair is not floppy.” His eyebrow spikes. “And I was aiming for bashful.”
“Doubtful.” I try not to grin as he straightens. Maybe Riley was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for one-night stands, because I’m not exactly unhappy to see this amount of tall, dark, and handsome on my (borrowed) doorstep. “Have you ever been?”
“No, not for a while.”
“Color me surprised,” I deadpan, crossing my arms across my chest over Lori’s threadbare T-shirt. The girl loves me, what can I say? You can practically see my bra through the worn cotton—the only bra currently in my possession, the same one he peeled from me last night. It’s only a hop and a skip of his thoughts for him to realize I’m not wearing panties. Thanks to him destroying them. And that’s hardly a Sunday afternoon conversation.
“You didn’t seem too concerned about my personality yesterday. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” His gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
“Not until you tell me how you found me. And probably not even then.”
“You took a hotel car. I asked the concierge for the address after I woke this morning. Alone.”
“And you thought, what? My leaving must’ve been a mistake.” Check me out, all cool and feisty, as though I totally wrote the one-night stand rule book.
“Why did you leave, incidentally?”
“To save us this.” I gesture between us.
“Are you embarrassed?” He shifts his weight onto one leg and makes a V across his chin with his hand. “Because I remember you being much less inhibited last night.”
His tone vibrates under my skin. At least until a passerby does a double take, no doubt catching his meaning. “Hush!”
“You are embarrassed,” he says with a low, delighted chuckle. “How charming.”
“The concierge wouldn’t have told you where the car took me,” I retort, ignoring my burning cheeks. “Unless you bribed them.”
“Bribery is unnecessary when you own the hotel.”
“You—what?”
“I own the hotel. Relax, Eve. This isn’t the start of a stalking campaign.”
“That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”
The look he slides me isn’t exactly complimentary. Can’t say I blame him as I stand here in my borrowed, unattractive activewear, my face free of makeup and my hair resembling a tumbleweed. A serious stalker would probably run the other way.
“I’m here because I need to speak with you.”
“Why?” Disquiet pokes at me as he reaches to his back pocket, pulling out his phone. Better than my torn panties. He hands it to me wordlessly, and my eyes dip to the screen. “Pulse Tok?” The popular social media app is already open. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type.”
I have it on my own phone, mostly for video makeup tutorials and people doing crazy dances. Maybe I’m expecting something like that, and that’s why it takes my brain a moment to compute. To make sense of what I’m seeing. The sound isn’t on, not that I need it, as I recognize my wedding dress. Yep, that’s me, full of vengeance and experiencing (what looks like) a mental break.
“Oh. Oh no.” I press a hand to my mouth as a wave of nausea rises through my insides. Oliver reaches for me as I sway, but I’m not about to faint. Or maybe I am, as my butt hits the door and I find myself sitting heavily. “This is . . . so bad.”
“Is it?” He crouches down, his gaze level with mine, but there’s no sympathy in those striking eyes.