Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
So who’s trying to bust down my door at nine o’clock at night?
Tugging my T-shirt down to make myself look semihuman, I walk to my front door, kicking my purse out of the way to create a path, and turn the knob. Only to immediately slam it shut.
No way is Dalton Days at my apartment. No fucking way. Except . . . he is.
“What are you doing here?” I ask through the painted wood.
“I need to talk to you for a minute.” Dalton sounds like it pained him to say that. Say, not ask, because he certainly didn’t ask for a conversation. He informed me we’re having one. Well, he can fuck off.
“Sorry. Joy’s not home at the moment. Leave a number after the beep. Beeeeep!”
I hear the weight of his sigh, and when I peek through the peephole—which I totally should’ve done in the first place—I can see him staring at the hallway ceiling as if divine intervention will get me to open the door for him.
“Joy?” he finally says, looking almost . . . not vulnerable, but less invincible than normal. “It’ll be quick. Please.”
A horrible thought occurs to me. There’s only one reason that makes sense for him to be at my door, wanting to talk to me.
I rip the door open and demand, “Is Shep okay? What happened?” I’m already simultaneously gathering my purse from the floor, shoving my feet into the fluffy Uggs I keep by the door, and pulling my hair back into a ponytail. “What hospital?”
Dalton looks confused, his eyes wide and hands thrown up protectively in front of him like I might tackle him for information. “What? No. Shep’s fine. It’s not . . . that.” I pause, glaring at him for scaring the bejesus out of me for no reason. “Look, can we talk?”
He looks past me into my apartment, and I can read the judgment all over his face though not a single muscle twitches. I’m not exactly a clean freak, but my home isn’t dirty or hazmat worthy. I do a deep clean every weekend. Well, almost every weekend. But in between cleaning sprees, I tend to drop things where I am—keys not in the cute bowl by the door, but on the dining room chair with the mail, purse not on the hook but the floor, dinner plates and to-go boxes not in the trash but on the coffee table, and worn clothes in my floordrobe for either a rewear or washing.
Oh shit!
A thought hits me like a punch in the nose, and I whirl, snatching a pair of pink panties from the rug, where they landed haphazardly after I yanked them off earlier. I’d decided they were going in the trash because the lace was scratchy on my more tender parts today. Refusing to wear them for another second, I dropped them on the floor when I came in, because the trash was too far away.
Yep, Dalton definitely saw those. And now that I bent down, he can probably tell I’m commando beneath my sweatpants.
“What do you want, Days?” I snarl, throwing the panties over my shoulder to fall wherever.
He watches them fly and then glances down the hall, likely second-guessing whatever brought him to my door tonight. “Invite me in.”
I snort out a very unladylike sound that’s somewhere between disbelieving laughter and a pig. “What? Are you a vampire or something? Come in. Don’t. Your call.” I wave a hand dismissively and return to my nest of blankets on the couch.
Dalton follows, shutting the door behind him and stepping over my purse, which I of course simply dropped back to the floor so it’s ready for me to leave in the morning. He then nimbly sidesteps a pile of clothes and a couch pillow I threw at the TV when I didn’t like the person the bachelor gave a rose to. Dalton’s surprisingly light on his feet for being such a monstrous size, but I think I hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like Sweet baby . . . Yoda as he chooses a spot in front of the TV to stand for whatever conversation has brought him here.
I look at him expectantly, with zero desire to make this easier on him. Whatever he wants, he’s interrupting my evening for it. And tonight is one of the few I get off work because the weekend crew is doing the reporting for the nightly news.
“Yeah, so . . .” Dalton reaches back to rub the nape of his neck in his big hand, seeming unsure how to start. “Well—”
“Big hole in the ground. Fall in and fuck off.”
“Give me a minute, okay? This isn’t easy for me,” he snaps, pinning me with eyes dark as night.
Something in his glare makes me pause. He actually does look like shit. He’s wearing postpractice sweats, but that’s normal, so it’s not that. It’s more about the messy hair that looks like he’s been running his fingers through it on repeat, the prickly scruff covering his cheeks, and the wild look of desperation in his eyes. That’s what really makes me uncharacteristically clack my mouth shut and give him the floor, and the modicum of patience he asked for.