Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
When he twists back to face me, you can’t miss the trail of coffee from my mug to his, but he says nothing. He smirks as if amused before flopping a second omelet onto a paper plate.
I’m envious when he spears a plastic fork into the eggy goodness before he washes it down with a large gulp of caffeine. I am starving and severely dehydrated, but not enough to spend the rest of the day in the bathroom. So, instead of enjoying the breakfast treats he reheated for us, I watch him eat them.
“Not hungry?” Christian asks, still consuming.
I shake my head, preferring to lie without words.
He scoffs, discrediting my lie with as many words as I used to deliver it.
I hate how easily he reads me.
I get snappy when railroaded.
“I’ll eat… after showing you out.”
“Out?” he asks, speaking through a mouthful of crumbs. He didn’t just order omelets from the number-one restaurant in town. He also got a fresh batch of scones and a carton of crumbly cookies from my favorite baker.
My wish to devour my weight in carbs is heard in my reply. “Out of my apartment.”
Another bite before he says, “Are we going somewhere?” He emphasizes “we” with the same claiming authority I did when I said “my.”
“Not us. You.” The hem of my shirt creeps up high when I fold my arms over my chest. “I know about your...”—I take a moment to consider a word that won’t place me on the same level as him. When I cannot come up with anything, I go with honesty—“ploy. I overheard you and Mrs. Richler speaking in the living room. The air vents in this apartment are the equivalent of wireless walkie-talkies.”
He smirks.
What the?
“How is anything I said funny?”
“I’m not laughing at you. It is acknowledgment as to why you camped in the hallway all night. I thought it was because you cared.”
“As if.”
I am the worst liar in the world. I camped outside the bathroom because I felt horrible when I received a text from Aarav Deepak. He only arrived at his restaurant after my order had been delivered and partially consumed. The new chef was not aware of the powers of the capsaicin chemical. He used it excessively in the dishes I ordered.
His mistake could have killed us—literally.
The remembrance lowers my attitude to manageable. “I found a hideout as far away from the vents as possible.” I lower his smirk by adding, “The noises barreling through them were horrific.”
I can barely hear his reply through a second stint of laughter. “Hence my earlier chuckles.”
Although I shouldn’t, I take a moment to relish his mannish laugh before slipping off the stool and heading for the entryway.
I’ve only just opened the door when Christian pops his shoulder onto the framework separating the kitchen from the living area.
He looks so comfortable in my space that I have to add words to my nonverbal reply for him to leave. “On your bike.”
He angles his head to the side like a disobedient dog about to get smacked with a rolled-up newspaper. “I lied… but that isn’t enough cause for an eviction notice. I figured you’d know that better than anyone.”
He looks so smug that it is only fair I knock him down a peg or two. “I don’t need to give you an eviction notice.”
“Yeah, you do,” he interrupts, his cockiness increasing. “Not only am I a paying guest, but I also have your verbal agreement to stay here until another placement becomes available.”
Paying guest? What does he mean he is a paying guest? I haven’t received a dime from him.
Like the stars aligning in the wrong manner, my phone dings twice, announcing two new messages. When I yank it out of my bra strap, I read the first message about a payment notification from my bank account.
Trust Bank:
You’ve been paid $2,327 that transferred into your account ending in 7195.
The second is a message from Airbnb merchant services.
Airbnb Services:
New booking confirmed. Christian arrives Dec. 22 and leaves Jan. 2.
As my jaw spasms, I open the app for Airbnb Hosts and reply to the inbox message at the top of the screen.
Me to Christian:
Hi there! Thank you for your interest in my Airbnb. Unfortunately, I need to decline due to the “no asshole policy” not being agreed upon in your booking request. The best Airbnb experiences for both parties are found when a host’s House Guidelines are fully read and understood prior to booking. Sorry things didn’t work out, but best of luck finding the perfect Airbnb for your needs! –Angel. PS. I was never going to fall in love with you anyway.
Christian’s cheeks lift when his phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. He knows what is coming even without reading my message.
As he pushes off his feet, his abs moving in sync with his strides, he says, “Refunding my payment won’t work. We have a verbal agreement.”