Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 114284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
No matter if it made me sound like an arrogant asshole, he must’ve wanted me enough to keep quiet.
Only Lane could confirm that for me, though.
I wanted an explanation.
To start with.
Despite everything I’d learned tonight, I wanted him. I did. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, and I admitted it to myself. I still wanted to knock sense into him and claim his ass. He’d fucked me up in Florida, goddammit. I’d known just a few hours after they’d left that shit couldn’t be over between us. Temporary vacation fling? Screw that.
Whatever he’d done in the past didn’t fucking matter. He’d given himself to me, and I had zero desire to let go.
Now I just needed a new plan.
I blinked tiredly, my gaze landing on the business card holder on the dash.
New plan, new plan.
I grabbed my phone.
It was no longer “a little past nine” when I entered Lane’s building. My fingers were cold, and I welcomed the warmth inside the lobby. Fancy digs, definitely. Big seating area, a staffed desk. The doorman didn’t look up from his magazine, so I walked past and spotted the elevators across the open space.
I checked my watch. Twenty-two hundred—yeah, he should still be up.
I took the elevator to his floor and searched within me for any doubts, and I found none. Florida Man was on the move. Come hell or high water, Lane had left a mark I couldn’t scrub off, so this was happening.
When I stepped out of the elevator, I looked both ways, seeing nothing but long, winding corridors and countless doors. Good thing Macklin had given me all the info I needed. I veered left and ended up outside Lane’s condo a few beats later.
Go fucking figure. I scowled when I saw the state of the door. Was this why they had a guy in the lobby twenty-four seven? To compensate for zero-security doors? At some point, people were gonna have to accept that doors you could slide shit underneath belonged in the nearest dumpster. They were a fire hazard and a welcome mat for home invaders. There was a solid half inch of space between the door and the floor carpet. Hotels had better security.
I knocked twice and, upon seeing the peephole, I covered it with my hand.
“I’m not in the mood, Cor!” I heard Lane yell, the sound muted.
Interesting.
I knocked again.
Lane cursed. “Shouldn’t you be in Winchester? They didn’t exhaust you enough at the water park if you’re…” He opened the door and probably forgot all about what he was going to say.
Fucking hell, he was too beautiful.
While he froze in shock—maybe a little terror too—I registered two things. My heart beat a little faster when I saw his eyes. He’d been upset not too long ago. They were a touch red. But the bitchy worrywart in me won out.
I pointed at the door and shrugged out of my jacket. “I didn’t hear you unlock it. You don’t lock the fuckin’ door?”
Should I pull stats outta my ass to smack some fear into him? The crime rate in DC wasn’t exactly low. And with a shitty door like that, he should have extra locks. I was thinking at least four.
“Close your mouth, boy.” I walked past him, found a hook for my jacket, and as I removed my shoes, was instantly assaulted by the unique scent of Lane—and very little proof of reptiles living here. Unless you were a neat freak, reptiles had a faint smell that was difficult to mask.
Beyond the tiny entryway, I entered the living room, and maybe he was a neat freak. The way the spotlights extended atop the bookcase and hit the shelves, the shine let me know I wouldn’t find a speck of dust there. Knickknacks and books were neatly organized across the entire wall.
On the other side of the room was his TV area. Just as pristine. The rug perfectly aligned with the floorboards and the coffee table.
He used a coaster for his soda. That said it all. Sweet boy.
My brain kept racing. Going into analyzing mode had always been fun, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so invested in the person I tried to read.
I heard Lane close the door—and lock it. Good.
He had some shelves above the couch too, where I saw primarily photos of reptiles and places he’d been to. Some souvenirs too. A black-and-white photo stood out—a gorgeous picture of Lane holding a bearded dragon. He had the biggest smile on his face as he studied the lizard.
“Have you recovered yet, darlin’?” I asked, without turning around.
He’d cleaned today; I decided right there. The smell of cleaning supplies was too noticeable. And that made me wonder why. How often did a popular guy in his midtwenties spend Saturday night at home cleaning?