Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106806 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Chuck: I told you I don’t know what you’re talking about. I got beat. It happens.
Savvy: You’re a lying asshole. I’ll send Julie to come get my shit. This is over. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.
I jab send then immediately block his number.
Chuck doesn’t deserve my tears, so I wipe my cheeks dry and take a deep breath. My grandmother would call this situation a blessing in disguise. I’m out of a bad situation. And Nathan . . . well, Nathan will have to figure out a way to pay off his debts.
I throw back the covers and roll off the couch. The hardwood floor is cool beneath my feet as I follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen.
There’s a note on the island in clean, blocky print with a plastic key card and a key on top.
Had to run. The key’s yours. The doorman knows you’re staying for a while. I’ll be home later. He’s scribbled his number at the bottom of the note and signed it O.
My heart does a little tumble as I trace that O with my index finger. There’s a big difference between letting me crash on his couch for the night and letting me “stay awhile.” Does he realize how much I need this? How screwed I am until I save enough money for a deposit on a place of my own? I feel like he knows. And I feel like he did it this way to save me from having to try to decline a favor I desperately need.
I should admit it to myself now—I’m crushing hard on Oliver Rhett.
I leave the key where it is and pour myself a cup of coffee. I was such a headcase last night I couldn’t really take this place in, but it’s gorgeous. Immaculate. The kind of apartment you’d expect a rich guy to live in. Someone who trades stocks during office hours or some shit.
Beyond the picture windows that line the living space is a balcony that overlooks downtown, now bustling with what passes for traffic in Crossport.
I sip on my coffee as I wander room to room, noting all the details that don’t quite fit Oliver. Floral paintings above the oversize white sectional, the glass coffee table, the bookcases staged with more knickknacks than books.
I wander down the hall, passing the bathroom where I showered last night and carefully opening the door opposite it. The smell of him hits me the moment I step inside. A light cologne or maybe an aftershave. Woodsy and clean.
The bedroom is as neat as the living area, but something about it seems to suit Oliver better. Maybe not the quilted headboard, but the gray bedspread that matches his eyes and the pile of books on his nightstand. There’s a big TV on the wall opposite the bed and a large bookshelf packed with everything from murder mysteries to biographies to books about finance. On the other side of the TV is an open door that leads to another bathroom. This one is even larger than the one I showered in last night. A soaking tub sits under a frosted window, and the shower has more spray nozzles than my high school locker room.
Opposite the tub, his closet is open. I step in, unable to resist running my fingertips along the shirts hanging there. Who is this guy? Why does some city kid rich enough to have his own high-end loft hang out at underground fights?
“Need something to wear?”
I jump then spin around to see Oliver smirking at me. He’s all sweaty, like he just got back from a run.
I should apologize for snooping, but I’m too stubborn. “Why’d you sneak up on me like that?”
He cocks a brow. “I didn’t realize I was sneaking. This is my closet.” With a shrug he crosses his arms, grabbing the hem of his shirt with both hands. He pulls it off over his head, revealing more muscles than I’ve ever seen on one guy. Chuck is muscular, but he’s nothing compared to Oliver.
There’s a smattering of hair on his chest and a dark path running from his navel past the waistband of his low-slung athletic shorts. My eyes latch on to that trail like it’s the path to salvation.
“Your clothes from last night are sitting on the dryer if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“You washed them?”
“Yeah.” He rakes his gaze over me. “Figured you’d need something to wear to class.”
“Thanks. That was . . . really thoughtful.” Just like the key and everything else last night.
He tosses his shirt into the hamper. “You’re welcome to watch, but I am planning to take off the rest of these sweaty clothes.”
With a squeak, I come to my senses and skirt around him—out of the closet and then out of his room. The sound of his low chuckle follows me into the hallway.