Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Donald Pugh. The name slithers into my mind like something slimy. He’s exactly the type of creep to do it. The guy has been making passes at me since day one, and every time I shut him down, he gets that little twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he’s keeping score. Like he’s waiting for his chance to get even.
If anyone in that office would make up lies about me, it’s Donald—that asshole!
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ache. Maybe I should feel scared about my job…about paying bills…about rent that keeps climbing higher and higher. But right now? I just feel angry. Like life as a single woman isn’t hard enough without this kind of complication.
By the time I pull into my apartment complex, the muscles in my shoulders are bunched tight, like I’ve been carrying bricks instead of thoughts. The building looms over me, big and boxy and crammed with students who attend the nearby University of South Florida. It’s cheap, which is the only reason I can afford it in Tampa’s nightmare housing market.
Tampa used to be affordable. Now, it’s like every influencer and their dog decided this was the place to be, and people like me are stuck with whatever scraps are left. The huge influx of newbies has pushed both rent and housing costs sky-high, not to mention the rising price of groceries. I swear I can barely afford to breathe anymore.
Tonight, the complex is buzzing. Music thumps from somewhere nearby, and two drunk sorority girls giggle their way across the parking lot, holding each other up like newborn foals.
“He’s sush a jerk,” I hear one sluring to the other. “You shuldn’ havta put up wi’ that.”
“Yeah, he’s a jerk,” the other agrees and they both giggle as though they’re in on the joke together.
I avoid them and drag myself up the stairs to the second floor where I nearly gag. A puddle of puke gleams wetly under the harsh fluorescent light, and sprawled beside it is a massive college football player, face-down, completely out cold. His jersey is smeared, his shoes untied, his entire body radiating Eau de Bad Decisions.
Lovely. Just lovely.
Dodging both puddle and player, I finally make it to my apartment. I unlock the door and step into the one place that’s supposed to be mine.
It’s really small, I admit that—the kind of place people might sneer at on Instagram. But I’ve worked hard to make it home.
A sagging loveseat sits against one wall, draped with a colorful crocheted afghan my Grandma made me before she died. A coffee table with one wobbly leg I scored on Facebook Marketplace holds a stack of romance novels and a pretty vase I found for cheap at a garage sale. The bookshelves are mismatched rescues from curbside giveaways, crammed so full of my TBR list they bow under the weight. Candles and fairy lights disguise the shabbiness, throwing a soft glow that makes the room look warmer than it really is. It’s imperfect but cozy—it’s just me.
“Mmmrrrow?” The trilling purr let’s me know the man in my life is coming to greet me.
“Hey, baby,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. No matter how bad things get, my cat always cheers me up.
Mr. Mittens trots out from the bedroom, his black-and-white fur glossy, his tail held high. He weaves between my legs, purring so loudly it almost drowns out the bass thumping through the walls of the party going on next door. He’s what they call a “tuxedo” cat with a black body and a creamy white chest. He even has a little black marking under his chin that looks kind of like a bow tie.
I rescued him when he was just a kitten. Someone had packed him and several of his brothers and sisters into a cardboard box and then dumped it into one of the huge metal dumpsters behind my apartment building. His loud, incessant yowling got my attention, and I climbed into the dumpster—yes, it smelled terrible but I couldn’t ignore his little voice—and found the box. When I opened it up, there he was, staring up at me and literally screaming for his life.
Of course, I couldn’t keep a whole litter of kittens—one pet is the limit at my complex and even then I had to pay an exorbitant fee to have him. I took the rest of the litter to the animal shelter where they promised to try and find them homes. Mr. Mittens—so named because his black front legs end in two silky white paws—came home with me. He’s a hero as far as I’m concerned—he refused to be quiet and saved his whole family with his stubbornness.
He’s also the sweetest, most cuddly cat I’ve ever owned. He always seems to know when I’m feeling down and he insists on sleeping next to me on the pillow every night.