Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Standing at my table, he growls, “Rachel?”
I see it then. Dark hair, perfectly knotted royal blue tie and suit, works too much, dedicated, and loyal. But Mark is also sweet and kind and funny. All things Noah is not.
Or at least not that I’ve ever seen.
“Noah? Or should I call you Mark? Is this some kind of prank? Did River put you up to this? Or Arielle?” I hiss. “No. This is over the line, way over the line. Even for them.”
My voice is getting louder, and I can feel eyes on me. Eyes I don’t need. Not as Riley Watson, and definitely not as Riley Sunshine.
Without waiting for a response, I head for the stairs, trying not to run because I know I’ll trip and fall in these stupid heels. And wouldn’t that be the punchline in whatever joke Noah is trying to pull?
Poor, lonely Riley Sunshine, falling down the stairs after the worst first date in the history of ever.
I make it to my bug, but even the sight of the yellow car that always makes me smile does nothing for me.
Not him. Not Noah Daniels.
Chapter 8
Noah
“Rachel . . .?” I whisper, watching Riley flee the cafe and head down the stairs.
It hits me harder than a speeding train full of bricks slamming into my gut, stealing my breath. This past week, the girl I’ve been talking to is . . . my best friend’s sister?
Riley Watson.
An instant later, another train hits me with the realization that I am so fucked. Royally, epically, massively fucked.
River’s going to kill me. Especially after what we did last night.
But where I should find horror and regret about that, about all of it . . . I don’t feel that at all. I feel . . . the loss of Rachel, this connection with someone who got me, and who I felt like I understood too.
I’m a ninety-six percent match with Riley Watson. I don’t know what to do with that.
I haven’t seen her in years, not since a rather unfortunate event when I was fresh at Life Corp and she was just starting college. Back then, River talked about his sister like she was this flighty, naïve, idealistic innocent. In hindsight, I think he might’ve been worried about her being hurt by the cruel realities of the world, but at the time, I hadn’t realized that.
She was all eternal optimism and the sun’ll come out tomorrow, and based on River’s frequent eye rolls, I suspected that she might actually break out into song like some Disney princess if given half a chance.
It got under my skin at a really difficult time because I was focusing on work, Mom, and Arielle. The differences in what I saw in Arielle and what River said about his sister were marked. Arielle fought and scrapped for everything she’s gotten, right along with Mom and me. She’s hard hearted with a tough exterior because she had to be. And it irritated the fuck out of me that Riley, someone Arielle hung out with, had the opportunity to be . . . soft, sweet, and to see the world as a beautiful place when Arielle had never had a chance to do that.
And I took that out on Riley.
Sighing, I get up and try to leave the café with some shred of pride left, but judging by the eyebrow lift the waiter gives me, I don’t succeed. I drive back to my apartment, but I don’t know what to do with myself.
I settle for a run on my treadmill, hoping it’ll help me think. Stripping off my suit, I frown at the blue tie and throw it on the floor. It’s my favorite, but I can’t imagine wearing it again now. I’ll think of her every time I see it. Next, I pull on compression boxers to tone down the ‘ball bounce’. I’ve never understood how some men can work out commando. Especially running.
I bet you and Rachel would have a laugh talking about that. Not Rachel. Riley.
I shake my head, knowing it’ll never happen. When I hurt Riley, I hurt her deeply, taking out my anger and frustrations on her though she’d done nothing to deserve either.
So I climb onto the machine, tapping at the touchscreen until I’ve got a running program ready and my television playing highlights from last weekend’s UFC event. I start running, alternating between jogs that let me lope along and hard sprints that leave my eyeballs feeling like they’re ready to pop out of my skull. Even with my heart hammering hard, my breathing near sucking wind, and the sight of guys beating the shit out of each other, my own self-induced agony won’t shut up my brain. Instead, all I can think about is the incident that triggered Riley’s anger at me.