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)
Oh noooooooo.
My eyes widen so much the skin around them pulls, and Benji knocks me right off my feet, bringing Chase down on top of me as a result. His weight is heavy, but the rest of my senses spin like a toy top that’s been released from a child’s hands.
Holy shit, how could I have forgotten what day it is? It’s Friday. The Friday! Probably because you decided to try your hand at a career as the next Merry Maid instead of thinking about it.
But now, I have to think about it, and the worst possible verdict is in—the book I wrote about the guy lying on top of me without his knowledge is getting published.
My ears buzz with that familiar ringing sound, and my peripheral vision rivals that of a drunk person.
I’m about to go night-night, I can feel it…
“Brooke, are you okay? Brooke!” I can hear the words being yelled, but the voice in my throat and edge of my consciousness are too muddled to respond.
I haven’t passed out completely in quite some time. I’ve skirted the brink, danced with the syncope devil, but never went fully lights-out. But this time, I can tell by the tingle in my palms and the wonky sound of Chase’s voice that all good streaks eventually come to an end.
Especially under the duress of finding out that the book you wrote about yourself and a man who has no fucking clue is going to be in bookstores worldwide, just waiting for people to read every dirty, salacious word.
Dear God and the Holy Ghost—I’m pretty sure Clive and River even devolve into anal play at the end of that one chapter I wrote after drowning in two bottles of wine.
And just like that—there’s a gap in the space-time continuum of Brooke Baker.
For all I know, the world stops turning.
Chase snaps his fingers in front of my face, and Benji barks directly in my ear as I start to come to, trying to make sense of where I am and who I’m with and what the hell is going on.
The thing about passing out I’ve never been able to come to terms with is that it doesn’t exactly read well with details in first-person POV. I don’t know what happens when my lights are out—I can only piece it together from the clues I find when they come back on.
“God, Brooke, are you okay?” Chase asks, half muttering to himself as he cradles my head in one hand and looks manically around my apartment for something. Benji licks at my face—a fun treat since his breath still smells like his dog food dinner—and I surreptitiously reach down to feel if my pants are peed.
When the pajama fabric brushes dry against my fingertips, relief escapes my lungs in a lengthy exhale.
“Brooke? Hello? Can you hear me?” Chase tries again, this time sounding even more desperate. He shakes his head then, scrambling to dig in his back pocket while still crouching and holding my head in his other hand. It’s pretty impressive, and I’m not sure I was generous enough with Clive’s flexibility when I was writing the book.
“I’m calling for an ambulance,” he declares, and that wakes me out of my slumber.
“No, no,” I say, my throat just dry enough that my words sound raspy. “I’m okay. I don’t need a ten-thousand-dollar joyride today.”
“Then let me drive you, or—” He curses under his breath. “I walked here. Wait…I could get a cab!”
Sadly, I think Chase Dawson is even cuter when he’s problem-solving.
“I’m okay, really. I mean, my head isn’t spurting a scary liquid, right?”
“No. No liquid coming from your head,” he replies, testing the feel of his fingers in my hair just to be sure. It feels stimulating, like a good scalp massage at the hairdresser.
In a seriously problematic way, given the circumstances, my mind takes out its notepad to scribble down yet another thing that Chase Dawson is capable of on a master’s level: Shampoo Girl. Immediately entranced, I picture Chase in some trendy NYC salon, all the women flocking to his tip jar to stuff their bras inside.
Good grief, maybe I do need a ride in the meat wagon. Destination: psych ward.
“Brooke? Please, let me take you to get checked out. You’re still scaring me.”
Well, that’s convenient, Chase. Because I’m also scaring myself in ways you can’t even imagine.
Using the muscles of my core, I force myself to sit up, and Chase backs away just enough to give me room. He doesn’t stand or retreat, and our breaths are left to commingle in a pretty tight space.
Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it, I chant in my head three times fast. I really don’t want to do a blood panel at the hospital, and I definitely don’t feel like losing access to wine if this thing is really going to market.