Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 127(@300wpm)
Shit, probably.
I don't want to do that, though. Now that I've finally gotten her outside the training facility, I want to rush right to the good parts where she's in my arms and everything is right with the world for once.
"That's not a no," I point out instead, and then press my luck. "Come on. I'll be the world's easiest patient. Just put me on the couch and queue up Netflix. I'll be out like a light in thirty minutes. You don't even have to talk to me. Or you could talk the whole time, if you want. Honestly, your choice."
She's gripping the wheel with both hands, eyes laser-locked on the icy road, but her cheeks are bright enough to set off a road flare.
"I can call Liz," she suggests, but she's caving. I know she is.
I shake my head, letting it loll against the window for maximum effect. Desperate times and all that. I need this woman in my house. In my space. Preferably in my bed. "Liz isn't the one who tried to kill me. That was all you, Sunshine. Do you want the whole team to know you just abandoned me to fend for myself?"
"Are you trying to blackmail me, Trent Kirk?"
"Depends. Is it working, or should I try harder?"
Her lips press together in a heroic struggle not to laugh. "Fine," she says at last, tone pure martyr. "I'll stay with you. But if you so much as breathe funny, I'm calling 911."
I raise both hands in mock surrender, feeling triumphant. It's weird to be this happy while my immune system is trying to forcefully evict me from my own damn body, but fuck it. I am happy. Dani is spending the night at my place.
Christmas miracles really do exist.
Chapter Three
Dani
It's amazing how quickly adrenaline wears off once you're not responsible for keeping a six-foot-three beast of a man from dying on your watch.
The entire way to Trent's place, I'm a shivering wreck with the emotional regulation of a five-year-old. My hair is also doing that thing where it looks like I just got electrocuted…which is precisely the look you want when you're about to spend the night with the man of your dreams.
In short, conditions are not ideal.
But I shuffle Trent up the sidewalk, anyway, propping his weight on my shoulder. He's not really half-dead anymore, but the odds of me getting him from the curb to his front door without one—or both—of us faceplanting into the snow are still iffy.
His building is ridiculous. Like, the sort of high-rise you only see in movies. You know, the ones where the character is either a billionaire CEO or an assassin-for-hire? Yeah, it's that kind of luxury.
The lobby has a fountain. The elevator has a chandelier. The foyer has a freaking museum-quality painting of several sheepdogs playing poker, which is simultaneously so impressive and so unhinged that I have to stop and gape at it for a second.
"Can you make it the rest of the way?" I whisper, trying to keep my voice down so we don't alarm the concierge, who is already watching us like he expects Trent to vomit on the pristine marble tiles.
"I'm a professional athlete," Trent grumbles, pulling himself upright. He immediately overshoots, nearly pitching forward onto the marble floor.
I grab his arm and steer him toward the elevator, trying to ignore how good his biceps feel under my hands. For a guy who almost died of anaphylaxis this morning, he's surprisingly…solid.
We reach his penthouse, and the door swings open like it's been waiting for us. The inside is even more absurd than the lobby. There's a grand piano, a wall of glass that overlooks the entire city, and a rug so soft I want to bury my face in it and nap for the next decade. There are also three hockey sticks, a stack of signed jerseys, and a bottle of ibuprofen the size of my head sitting on the coffee table.
He drops onto the couch with a groan, his arms flopping across the top like he's preparing to be painted like a French girl.
"Home sweet home," he sighs.
"Let's get you some water," I say, heading for the kitchen. "Then you're going to bed, and I'm going to sit vigil until I'm sure you're not going to choke on your tongue and die." I pause, realizing I have no clue where he keeps his glasses. Or anything, really. "Uh, where are your cups?"
He gestures with a wave of his hand. "Above the coffee maker, left side. Not the right. That's my protein shake shrine."
Sure enough, when I open the cabinet to the right, it's jammed with shaker bottles, whey tubs, and enough pre-workout to fuel a small CrossFit cult. Yuck.
I opt for the other side, grab a glass, and fill it with filtered water. There's a bowl of fruit on the counter, which I pointedly ignore. I prefer the miniature, gummy versions, thank you very much.