Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
A ding rings out into the quiet but otherwise intense silence when the elevator arrives at our floor, and Chase pulls us out of the cart in a hurry. His long strides guide us down the hall toward our room, and Benji, my goodest boy, trots quickly and dutifully behind us.
It might be a little weird to have him here, but if ever there was someone I’d expect to be cheerleading from the sidelines, it’d be this little fella. He’s had to listen to every insane thought I’ve had about Chase Dawson for months. As far as he’s concerned, I bet it’s about damn time.
The door opens easily enough, and Chase pulls me inside to shut it behind us. His body covers mine against the door, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as he looks me in the eyes and studies me in a way that makes the butterflies in my stomach go crazy.
My God, I’m in love with him. I’m in stupid, ridiculous, overachieving love with every single part of this—
My stomach gurgles and, without warning, triggers a reaction in my esophagus.
Oh no, my mind silently shrieks.
But my stupid stomach is determined with its response. Oh yes.
Time stills. Horror-movie actors scream in the nonexistent background. And vomit climbs the path of my throat in painstakingly slow motion.
“Oh no,” I say out loud this time, shoving Chase away nearly violently, and sprint toward the bathroom. Luckily, I’m hugging the bowl just in time to lose my hundred-dollar steak, baked potato, and every bit of the five mai tais I drank at dinner.
Clearly, the liquid confidence I thought I needed then has turned out to be a really, really bad idea.
How. Embarrassing.
Gah.
From hurried hands to hurling, I’ve really made this night a memorable one.
Great job, Brooke. You’ve really outdone yourself, babe.
Tuesday, May 30th
Brooke
My head hurts, but my pride…well, that little girl stings like a son of a bitch.
Waking up this morning to find myself in the same bed as Chase Dawson, an ache behind my eyes and our bodies fully clothed, after coming so freaking close to finally feeling what it’d be like to have him inside me was a real kick to the groin I could have done without.
Last night, he was so sweet and understanding, of course, switching gears from hot sex to cool washcloth in a heartbeat. But the feeling of what could have been lingered in the air long past the time that I stopped ralphing into the toilet and he got me settled into bed.
To be completely honest, I can still smell it now.
Ughhhh.
Timidly, I roll out of bed so as not to disturb him—his dress shirt unbuttoned and untucked in the cutest, disheveled way—and tiptoe to the bathroom to wash my face free of both sweat and bitterness.
I have a television appearance this morning on Las Vegas Morning Blend that I have to find a way to pull myself together for, and a whole tour to finish out with a man I don’t know how I’m going to look in the eye again.
I mean, we were moments from having sex, and I…puked. Several times.
Fucking hell.
But things are happening, the Earth is spinning, and life is moving on—even without the penetration we both so expected last night.
After one more long look in the bathroom mirror, I sigh and get down to the business of getting myself ready. Face, hair, teeth, shower—it all has to get done, and from the time on my Apple Watch, it has to get done quick.
I crank up my pace and get moving on each individual task, one at a time, until I’m finally through them all and somewhat put together.
My arm opens the bathroom door on a slow pull to exit, and the squeak of the bed springs as I do tells me all I need to know—Chase is awake.
“How are you feeling?” is the first thing the considerate bastard asks as I come into view, and it takes everything inside me not to crumble.
He really is too good to be true, and at this point, I see very little hope of ever talking myself out of love with him.
I’ll just have to be one of those spinsters, talking to her dog and dreaming of the man who got away.
“I’m better, thanks,” I say, carefully carrying my dirty dress and toiletries over to my suitcase.
I’m squatted down and concentrating so hard, the feel of Chase’s hand on my shoulder is a startling surprise.
When I look up to meet his eyes, they’re soft with compassion. “Hey. Let’s not let this be weird, okay?”
I laugh. It’s very dry, and he can tell.
“No, really,” he challenges, pulling me up to standing and guiding me to the foot of the bed to sit next to him on the bench. “I’m serious. I don’t regret anything. Everything that happened was…well, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”