Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
He doesn’t shy away as I grab the sandals from his hand in a huff and use his arm to lean on as I pull on my shoes.
“Thank you,” I say before turning and walking down the street.
He sticks so close to my side, his arm bumps mine periodically, and when someone in more of a hurry than we are nearly knocks me over, I become obsessed with the way he wraps one arm around my back and uses the other in front to protect me from getting shoved.
Of course, he pulls away the second the threat is gone, but I have a good imagination and can easily recall the heat of his touch.
Lunch isn’t nearly as fun as the salon. He doesn’t smile or laugh while we wait in line. He doesn’t even order anything to eat when we get to the counter. When I slide into a recently vacated seat with my food, he walks a few feet away and props himself up against the wall, never taking his eyes off me.
I hate the scrutiny. It doesn’t have the same light-hearted feel it did last night while I was drinking my shake. There’s nothing sexy about devouring a Caesar-stuffed pita with extra sauce, but I’m starving. I refuse to be one of those girls that refuses to eat in front of a man, especially one who I have no intention of taking things in a romantic direction.
I stare right at him as I take a huge bite of my food, chewing like a horse as he watches me. He doesn’t seem impressed, but the glint in his eyes makes me think otherwise. Ignoring the sauce I can feel dripping down my chin, I take another big bite, nearly choking when he licks his own lips.
When I finish, at a speed that’s sure to make me sick later, I ball up my trash and drop it in a trash receptacle on my way to the restroom. I don’t see Flynn following me down the quiet hall but can feel his presence as I disappear behind the door marked Women.
Eating like an animal matches my appearance when I look in the mirror over the sink as I wash my hands. Sauce has dripped down to my shirt, and no amount of damp paper towels is going to get the stain out, I realize after dabbing at it for over a minute.
I chose this place for a reason. Not only do they have the softest pita bread I’ve ever tasted, but it also has a floor-level window. I first used this window to skip out on a check at the dare of a few friends in junior high, and I’ve used it several times since I returned to New York City after discovering college just wasn’t for me. Phillip caught on very quickly which places I could easily bolt from, and I haven’t been here in months. Apparently, he didn’t share a list with Flynn because he’s none the wiser standing in the hall as I slip out into the alley.
I whimper in pain when the drop is higher than I recall. My hands hit the filthy concrete as my right knee makes contact with a crack. Pain radiates to my hip, but I’ve gone too far to turn back. I’m committed to getting away from him for no other reason than bragging rights at this point.
Limping toward the sidewalk, I refuse to look down at my leg, even when I feel the trickle of blood slide behind the strap of my sandal.
“Remington!”
Jesus! I turn and bolt in the opposite direction of his voice, a feat on its own considering the pain in my leg.
I squeal when strong arms catch me from behind, and for some reason, tears burn the backs of my eyes. I don’t know if it’s from the pain or the embarrassment I feel with getting hurt while acting like a damned diva.
I struggle to get away, going so far as to kick my legs, forcing Flynn to hold every ounce of my weight. Unsurprisingly, he does it with ease, hissing for me to calm down in my ear.
People walk around, looking at us with disgust for causing a scene, and that makes my blood boil. How do they know that I know him? I could be being kidnapped for the sex trade or something here, and no one is offering a hand. Even a little old lady, who looks like she’s wearing a beaver skin on her head—fashion over comfort always in New York City—despite the heat of the afternoon, scowls at me, her head shaking as she walks away.
I decide to test things even further, yelling, “Help me! Help me!” to no avail.
If anything, people give us a wider berth.
“What’s going on here?”
I sigh in relief, seconds away from giving up on humanity altogether, at the question.