Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“Imani,” Malik yells as Freya heads towards the room she was directed to.
“What?”
“Mom’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you about Thanksgiving.”
Imani rolls her eyes but takes the outstretched phone and heads out of the apartment for some peace and quiet. I’m left in the doorway of the den, finding a few people watching sports highlights. And Jacob Drayton.
He’s slouched in the corner of the sectional with an empty space next to him, as though he’s so fearsome that nobody dared to get too close. His head is tipped back, eyes closed. Even with his face half hidden in the shadows, he looks like a fallen angel, perfect but corrupted. His blond hair is messy, his jawline sharp, and his presence fills the room, even when he’s trying his best to blend into his surroundings. I hesitate for a second, not recognizing anyone else, but then I think about the box that I rooted through today and how significant it could be to him, and I don’t want to miss an opportunity to tell him about it.
I cross in front of the TV and perch on the edge of the seat, keeping my eyes on Jacob. Is he sleeping? He opens his left eyelid just a crack and then drops it back.
“Riley Johnstone.” His voice is like gravel and velvet, low, rich, and raspy.
“Jacob Drayton.”
“I’m not in the mood for company.”
“And here was me thinking you were the life and soul of the party.”
He snorts, keeping his eyes closed.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, finding his face tense and a frown tugging at his mouth. He’s at a party, but he looks like he should be in bed.
“You okay?” I ask softly, surprising myself.
For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me. Then he shifts slightly. “Headache.”
“You should go home,” I suggest. “Rest in a dark room, maybe take something for it.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m not an old person, Riley.”
“It works for me.”
He scrunches his eyes as though my voice has added an extra layer of pain to his misery.
“I push through them. Or fuck through them. That’s what works.”
I flush at the harshness of his words. “Sounds painful.”
He shakes his head. “You have no idea.” There’s a weight to his confession, and I sip my drink, unsure how to respond.
“Riley.” His deep voice saying my name makes my stomach flip, and I blink at him, startled. Both eyes are open now, watching me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. “That night at the Red Devil—”
“—you really don’t need to.”
He smirks, revealing just a hint of his perfect smile. “Don’t need to what?”
“Apologize.”
His smirk grows wider. “How do you know that’s what I was going to do?”
I stare at the screen, at an impossible touchdown, as the others in the room erupt into a celebration. It’s not a live game, but it’s still friggin’ exciting. “Sorry for assuming you were trying to be a decent human being.”
“Maybe I was going to ask you if you changed your mind. You know orgasms can be nature’s headache remedy.”
Shocked, I swivel in the seat pressing my knee against his bulky jean-clad thigh. “Don’t fuck with me, Jacob.”
He shrugs. “Can’t fault a man for trying.”
“Guess it’s in the blood,” I mutter.
He stiffens, bringing his hand to his temple. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.” If he has a headache now, he’d probably burst a blood vessel to find out what I’ve done with his brothers.
He rubs a hand over his face, his knuckles white. “I didn’t know who you were. If I’d known...”
“You would’ve what?” I challenge lightly, though there’s no heat behind it.
His mouth quirks in a half-smile. “I don’t know. Probably acted like less of a dick.”
“Probably.” I smile, too, trying to ease the tension. “It’s fine, Jacob. I get it. It was a weird situation for both of us.”
His gaze sharpens like he wants to say something else, but I fill the silence first.
“I watched one of your dad’s games today. With my dad.”
His body stiffens, and his eyes narrow slightly. “What?”
“My dad pulled out this box of stuff from when he was married to your mom. Apparently, he kept some of your dad’s things—game tape, a diary, a jersey—because he thought you might want them someday.”
Jacob sits up straighter, his posture rigid. “He kept them?”
“Yeah.” I nod, setting my drink on the floor. “Apparently, your mom wanted to toss everything. He said he didn’t think it was right to throw them away, so he held onto them. You can come get them anytime.”
For a moment, Jacob ponders, his jaw ticking and his big hands flexing into fists on his thighs. When he finally speaks, his voice is tight and low.
“I don’t want them.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” He stares at me, his eyes blazing. “Toss it. Burn it. I don’t care. I don’t want any of it.”