Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
He sighs heavily but nods. “I know.”
As he heads to the kitchen to wash his hands, I straighten up, zipping my jeans. On his return, he checks out the pack of pups, still silently staring at us.
“Weirdos,” he says, but it’s spoken with such affection as he strides over to them, petting each one on their little heads. The image is social gold.
Impulsively, I grab my phone. “Can I take a picture? For the team feed if they want it?”
He turns his gaze to me. “Sure.”
I tell him to sit on the couch, and he obeys. The dogs pile onto his lap, and the shot of him in his suit, covered in pups makes me swoon.
And I know I won’t be the only one. He rises and says, “I definitely should go now.”
“You should,” I say.
But once more he gives the middle finger to the ticking clock, coming right up to me in the living room, stroking my cheek and saying, “I know that broke the rules. I know we shouldn’t do that again, but right now I have something to tell you.”
“Okay,” I say, urging him to keep going. This must be what he wanted to tell me earlier.
“I want you to sleep in my bed when I’m gone,” he says, and he already told me that when he showed me around.
He clearly really wants me to.
“I will,” I say.
“I want you to send me a picture of you in my bed. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“And I want you to fuck yourself on my bed while I’m not there.”
I tremble from his filthy request. “I will.”
“Did you bring your toys?”
“No. That seemed presumptuous.”
His lips twitch in the hint of a grin. “Call me presumptuous then. Because I left one in the nightstand drawer for you. As a thank you gift.”
This man. This fucking man.
Then he hauls me in for a hot, passionate kiss that ends far too soon. When he breaks it, he says, “We shouldn’t do that again.”
But he doesn’t sound convinced one bit.
I’m not sure I am either.
30
A ROOM OF HER OWN
Leighton
I could get used to this life.
The next morning, I’m standing on the second-floor balcony, sipping a steaming cup of Jasmine Downy Pearls—AKA the world’s greatest tea. The sun’s rising above the bay, and I tell myself yesterday was a mistake I won’t make again.
A delicious, toe-curling mistake. But even so, it can’t be repeated. Especially since he’s now my employer. It’s temporary, but who knows? It’s best if I don’t get more tangled up with a man who’s already so deeply entwined with my family and my job. Now, my jobs. But I also don’t want to take a chance with my future or with his.
He’s worked too hard to risk the uncertainty that comes with a fling with the coach’s daughter. I care too much about Miles and my dad to put either one of them in that position.
Today I’ll return to the friendship we’d been building. I have to. It’s the only way.
The morning light casts a golden glow over the water—a good signal for this shift back. Wanting to capture this moment before it passes me by, I lift my phone and snap a photo.
I send it to Miles with a friendly message since we’ve talked about inspiration before.
Leighton: This view speaks to my photographer’s soul.
Miles: Yeah? What’s the story you’re telling with this picture?
Leighton: It’s the story of a girl who had a good night’s sleep in a soft bed with four perfect roommates. They burritoed themselves under the blankets and didn’t say a single word all night long.
Miles: They are the perfect roomies. I’m glad you got some peace and quiet. I sent the pics you sent me to my mom—she says you’re a better dog-sitter than I am.
Leighton: What every dog mom really wants—pics.
Miles: OK if I set up a group chat with her?
I type back a quick, Of course.
I reread the exchange. It’s friendly, casual. Safe. A new day where we move past yesterday’s not-so-friendly encounter when he put me up against the wall and finger-fucked me so well I saw distant galaxies.
Maybe we slipped yesterday, and fine, maybe I stoked the flames last night when I sent him a photo of me in my cami, sliding under those soft, fluffy covers.
But today, Montreal is a country apart from me. An international border separates us, and three time zones too.
We’ll be back to the way we were—just like that.
After leashing the pack by the front door, I count them. “One, two, three, four,” I say. Miles insisted counting them regularly keeps you sane and he’s not wrong. It helps.
We head out to Crissy Field, the dogs trotting beside me, their snouts sweeping the ground for scents, their gazes surveying the landscape for enemy dogs.
AKA—any dog that isn’t them.
Boppity, the long-haired pretty girl, spots one a hundred feet ahead—a Doberman Pinscher jogging past with a woman. Boppity growls, low and menacing, all seven pounds of her (and that is mostly hair), before launching into an ear-splitting, how dare you walk past me bark. Boo joins in, backing her up.