Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Now? I'm so fucking desperate; I would try anything. My chest is going to explode if my head doesn't explode first from all the pressure building in it. I don't have the conscious thought to reach out and run my fingers over one of the plastic handles. Before I know it, the idea of using one of these knives to make the pain go away is too much to resist.
Nothing serious, nothing permanent. Just a little cut. Enough to take the edge off.
When the overhead light suddenly flips on and floods the room with bright, glaring light, I'm too disoriented to understand what happened. I drop the knife back into the block and whirl around to face Romero, who's standing with his hand still touching the light switch. He’s staring at me like he's never seen me before.
I still can't breathe, yet there's a different reason now. It's one thing to see him out of a suit lately— strange enough. However, seeing him in nothing except a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants steals my breath from my lungs and makes my mouth dry.
That's not the weirdest part. There's a flutter in my belly, something familiar but totally unexpected because this is Romero. So what if his abs make it look like he spends his life in a gym? So what if it's not a knife I want to reach for anymore, but his waistband? I want to see what's underneath, hinted at by the sharp V of muscle leading down to…
“I hope this isn't what it looked like when I first walked in.”
Just like that, the fluttering ends. All it took was the sound of his voice, especially that deep note of disapproval resounding through it.
“And what did it look like?” I want him to say it; I want him to look me in the eye and say it out loud.
He makes a big deal of looking around, finally landing on the empty butcher block counter. “I don't see anything you'd have a reason to cut. Why would you need a knife?”
“That's my business, not yours.”
“I hope you don't think that would solve anything. Hurting yourself.” He folds his arms over his chest, and I have to force myself not to stare at his pecs or how his biceps bulge. I knew his physique was amazing thanks to the way his suits have always hugged his broad, muscular frame, but seeing it without layers of fabric is a whole other story.
“My body. My business..”
“I don’t care if it’s your body. I won’t allow you to do that to yourself, not on my watch. Understood? It’ll never be enough anyway, and it won't take away your pain. It might give you some sort of satisfaction, but it will never solve the real issue.”
I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, but my surprise emits laughter. “Are you speaking from personal experience, or?”
“Maybe?” He lowers his brow, his icy glare piercing me in the chest. It's either ice cold indifference or raging disapproval. Like a penny, heads or tails, you always know you’ll get one or the other. “You're not the first person I ever met who went through some serious shit. The kind of shit that makes you believe there’s no end in sight.”
“Did they get through it?”
He snorts, then lifts a muscular shoulder. “I don't know. I hope they did. But life took me in a different direction.”
My heart skips a beat when he comes closer, placing himself between me and the knife block. I have to back away—being this close to him is the last thing I need when he looks the way he does, like a GQ magazine had a baby with Ryan Reynolds, and smells so good, clean, like soap and musk, cinnamon and sleep. “You don't need to do that. There are much better alternatives.”
“Ha, you mean like going back on medication that makes me feel like a zombie, so all I want to do is sleep all day? Or maybe I should go back to therapy and dredge up all this shit over and over and only feel worse when I leave. Maybe you don’t remember, but I already tried that. I won’t do it again.”
“Those aren't the only options available, but I can promise you, your solution isn’t at the end of that blade.”
This is different. I'm not sure how to feel. It's like we're having an actual conversation. If I didn't know better, I would think he really cares what happens to me. Everything about him, from his posture to the stern expression he’s giving me, paints the picture of somebody who genuinely gives a damn.
I hate to admit it, being that Romero is a pain in the ass, but for the first time in months, I don't feel so alone. Bianca tried. I love her for it, but it still felt like she was on the other side of a deep, vast body of water, and all we could do was shout to each other from opposite banks. This is different. This feels genuine. He sees me the way I am now, not the way he wishes I could be again.