Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Fuck.
I wrench myself to my feet so fast that my brain literally flashes black spots in front of my eyes for my effort.
“You wouldn’t dare.” I don’t have the mics turned on.
She grins at me, those perfect lips of hers turning up. She’s wearing some pale pink lipstick today. Something matte. “You’re probably saying to yourself that I wouldn’t dare, but that’s the thing. I would. It’s true that the downside of a party will be the extreme amount of people, and I can see this place filling up fast, but the bright side is that I’ll make so many new friends so fast.”
She would never. She would never, ever, not in five million years, dare to hold a block party in someone else’s house. My house. I call her bluff with an arms-crossed staredown.
Peach Lips.
Ephemeral would never put her at risk, and if the place were crawling with people, there would be no way to keep Peach Lips safe unless she locked herself in one of the rooms upstairs.
Or it is left with her.
For the duration of the night.
In the little cat backpack thing she has that looks like it’s made for space cats to space travel.
Fuck.
She grins deviously into the camera again as if she can see me going through my doubt list and crossing off one after another.
Her face isn’t ogre-like in the least, and that’s the problem. It’s why I should stay away. Getting caught up in a beautiful smile, a sweet, innocent aura, and the smell of sheer wonderfulness isn’t my thing.
The problem with having a connection is that it’s connecting. If I’m not driving myself to the limit with work, I know I’d have time to think. Thinking might make me realize there are gaps in my life as far as friends, family, and lovers are concerned. And that loneliness might drive me to do something silly, like wanting to fill that aching hole with another person. Not through a hook-up but with something meaningful and lasting.
All the things I said I’d never have for some very obvious reasons.
The love-hurting reason is number one on that list.
“Okayyyyyy, welllllll, you’re still not here, so I’m going to take your silence as assent. You should come on down, though. I think I’ll have the party tomorrow night. That should be enough time to get the word out. Ooh!” She literally starts jumping up and down, her bright orange dress with cats riding sharks fluttering madly around her slim body. At the same time, it’s tight in the bust and waist, and it flares out at the hips, outlining every single gentle ebb and flow of her curves.
Which I decidedly do not care for in the least.
Obviously.
She dips back down, and thank pasta and sauce, that dress is tight. I don’t get a full cleavage view, but still. My dick punches hard against the front of my pants. There’s not enough room for camping in there, but there’s half a tent, and that’s about half too much tentage.
What the fuck?
“The neighbors are waving at me!” she whisper-screams in a conspiratorial tone. “I think they’ll be the perfect people to spread the word. They look young and fun. Oh my god, there’s another! She just popped right up. They’re giving off college vibes, for sure. They could probably invite SO MANY PEOPLE.” She works her lips around those words, enunciating every syllable for my benefit.
She giggles at the end, and it’s that high-pitched, forced note that does it.
It’s what tells me that she’s kidding.
I think.
She’s too responsible to trash a stranger’s house, and she has to realize a party like that will leave the inside looking like a dumpster fire, except it won’t be cute or witty.
She winks at the camera and dashes off.
I don’t raise it to follow her or check the ten others I have pointing in the direction she just went.
Instead, I snatch my phone and keys off the desk and storm out of my office. I get myself down all twenty floors to the parking lot and into my car in record time. The one thing money can buy that I do enjoy? Well-made, fast cars. Still practical, though. This is technically a company vehicle. Tinted, armored, and with six hundred horsepower, all while being soccer mom minivan-style comfy.
I drive safely and conservatively on the way home. I want to break every speed record known to man, but that’s not how San Diego traffic works. Getting locked in traffic only gives me time to think.
To formulate.
To get my battle plan in order and my game face on.
Chapter eight
Ephemeral
Holy blazing buffalo hot wings, this guy looks pissed.
This guy being Thorn, and then pissed as in he’s standing at the entrance to the kitchen after literally making so much noise in the four-car showroom-worthy garage and banging the door to the house so ferociously that I can’t mistake his entrance unless it’s a bear who is freshly woken out of hibernation about two months too early and is not the least bit happy about it.