Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Give me two minutes, and I’ll be out of here.”
I turned. “You’re going to give me the suite?”
He nodded. “I just need to pack up my stuff.”
I studied his face. “You sure?”
Weston grinned. “I’m game for sharing, if you prefer.”
I rolled my eyes, feeling more like the Weston and Sophia I was comfortable with. “Go pack your shit.”
He smiled and disappeared into the bedroom as I rolled back inside. A few minutes later, he walked out with his zipped suitcase in one hand and his dress shirt in the other. Setting down the case, he raised his arms to slip into his shirt, and I noticed for the first time a large scar running down the side of his body. It was faint, only a shade lighter than his tanned skin. Earlier, all I’d been able to see was a mass of perfect muscle, so I guess those outshined any minor flaws.
“Is that from a surgery of some sort?” I asked.
Weston frowned. He looked down and began to button his shirt. “Yup.”
Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about it. But I was curious. “What kind of surgery was it?”
“Kidney. A long time ago.”
“Oh.” I nodded.
He picked up his suitcase, not bothering to finish buttoning or tuck his shirt in. “I left you something in the bedroom.”
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
Weston seemed unsure how to say goodbye. Eventually, he said, “You know I’m only rushing out because I can take a hint, and I know you don’t want me here after, right?”
“I appreciate that.”
“While I’m at it, I love your ass, but I wouldn’t mind looking at you while I’m inside you at some point in the future. Maybe even tasting those lips that like to yell at me.” He winked. “Bite ’em a few times.”
I sighed and looked away. “There can’t be a next time, Weston. This really needs to stop.”
I didn’t need to look up to know he was smiling. His voice said it all. “’Night, Feef.”
Chapter 10
* * *
Weston
“How are you, old man?”
Mr. Thorne grumbled. “I got a hemorrhoid the size of a golf ball sticking out of my ass, haven’t been laid since the Clinton administration, and the only person who comes to visit me is you. How do you think I’m feeling?”
I smiled and pulled a chair up to his bedside. “Two out of three of those I could do without knowing. But that last one—you’re a very lucky man.”
He waved his hand at me. “Did you bring me the goods?”
I shook my head, pulled ten scratch-offs from my inside suit jacket pocket, and dug a quarter from my pants. Grabbing a book off his nightstand, I set it up on his lap so he could work on his lottery tickets.
Mr. Thorne started to scratch off the gray latex and pointed to the nightstand without looking up. “Make sure you take the ten from my money over there.”
“Okay.”
Same conversation we had every time I came by since I’d been back in New York, and I wasn’t even sure he knew I’d never taken a dollar from him. The ten bucks was the least I could bring him for listening to my ass over the last few years.
While he was fiending on his lotto tickets, I swiped the remote from next to him on the bed and flicked to CNN.
“Hey. I was watching that.”
I arched a brow. “You were? Let me save you the trouble. It’s not the big guy with the shaved head’s kids. It’s the scrawny dude with the mullet and crooked teeth’s spawn.”
Mr. Thorne spent most of his day watching Jerry Springer and other similar programs. I had no idea if this particular episode was about paternity or not, but all those stupid shows seemed to end the same way.
“Smartass,” he grumbled.
“You know what they need to do on one of those shows?” I said. “Have a minimum income of a million dollars a year for guests. Change up the scenery a bit. Maybe I could sign up a few members of my family. Airing the dirty laundry of rich assholes is just as entertaining as the dirty laundry of people who don’t have a pot to piss in.”
Mr. Thorne scoffed. “Like anyone could relate to your problems, spoiled rich kid.”
Someone looking in from the outside might think I had reason to be insulted by the way the old man talked to me. But it was just his way—his way of reminding me my problems could be a hell of a lot worse.
He finished scratching off his tickets and tossed one at me. “Won five dollars. Only cost me ten. Give me back my ten and take this and a five. You can cash it in next time you stop to get my tickets. Bring me one of those ten-dollar scratch-offs next time instead of ten one-dollar ones.”