Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 93699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 375(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“You have two minutes to handle your business and get the hell out.”
“It’ll take me less than that.” I find the bathroom and shut the door.
Turning around, I can’t help but gasp. This bathroom is bigger than the bedrooms in all the other apartments I’ve seen.
I take a closer look at the clawfoot tub, running a hand against its silver spigot. I check out the closet and the walk-in shower, and before I know it, I forget why I even came in here.
After washing my hands, I walk down the hall, where Penelope is fuming in the living room. She’s managed to pull on her bright pink “I’m the Best Figure Skater Alive” t-shirt that I’ve always loathed.
So she’s still petty as hell.
“Your bathroom is nice,” I say. “Is that the only one?”
“No, there are three. Two more you’ll never see.”
I slide my purse over my shoulder and look her in the eyes. Since she has her memory back and she’s still a cunt, I need her to know something.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I don’t think I’ve ever hated another person the way I hate you.”
“The feeling will always be mutual.”
Silence.
For some strange reason, I can’t bring myself to walk away.
Not just yet.
“What are you doing now?” I ask. “Like, career-wise.”
She says nothing.
“I heard that you never got all your memory back after the fall. Is that true?”
“I get bits and pieces back on some days,” she relents. “But I’m still missing a lot, and the memories are never in order.”
“Are you coaching?”
“I coach off and on,” she says. “I have a few private clients, but they’re not worth mentioning.”
“Let me guess. They have rich parents who are wasting their money since the kids can’t skate their way off the railing?”
“Exactly.” She nods. “I give inspirational speeches to colleges and sports teams, too. I have one coming up a few weeks from now in California actually.”
“Does that pay well?”
“Sometimes.” She pauses. “Not ‘living in New York’ well. Hence, the roommate thing. I doubt it pays as well as your career.”
I raise an eyebrow, confused about why Travis isn’t paying her rent.
“How do you know what I’m doing?” I ask.
“I hate-follow you on Instagram from a burner account. I’m the person who always comments: ‘You’re not that pretty’ and ‘Get over yourself.’”
“Good to know.” I smile. “I would say that it’s nice seeing you after all these years, but honestly—”
“It’s not.”
“Agreed.” I walk to the door. “Best of luck finding a roommate who doesn’t hate you.”
“Thank you.” I step out, and she slams the door behind me.
I turn around and stare straight ahead.
If I were sane, I would walk away now, forget this place existed, and move the hell on. There’s no way that living with the woman who’s related to the man who still owns my heart is a good idea.
I’m so close to going twelve hours a day without thinking about him.
So damn close…
Then again, there’s no other apartment in this city that I’ve loved at first sight, and we managed to room together in the past without killing each other, so—
The door swings open again, and I can’t help but blurt out, “I really need a place to stay, and I can pay for the first ten months in advance.”
Penelope sighs and ushers me inside.
She asks me a few questions, and I answer them on autopilot, too caught off guard by the huge picture hanging over her fireplace.
It’s her standing with Travis in a hospital room. She’s holding balloons in her hand while he smiles, and there’s a colorful banner above them that reads, “I Proved All the Doctors Wrong. I’m Walking Again, Soon to be Skating Again!”
“That’s my older brother, Travis,” Penelope says. “He’s a fighter in the UFC. He doesn’t come into town too often, now that I’m better, but whenever he has a match in Vegas, he flies me out to watch it.”
“Has he ever mentioned me?” The words fall from my lips before I can stop them.
“You?” She tilts her head to the side. “He banned me from bringing you up in our conversations at one point.”
“What?” I try not to look too eager for an explanation. “Why would he do that?”
“He had his reasons.” She pauses. “I used to talk shit about you all the time when we competed, and he got tired of it. He shut me down before I could even start.”
I have no idea how to react to that, and a part of me can’t help but wonder if this is the universe throwing me a fresh chance or playing another twisted joke.
“It’s crazy,” she says, shaking her head. “Talking about my opponents never bothered him until you came along. Like, if I ever said a word that sounded similar to your name, he would glare at me as if it was personal.”