Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Staying calm, I put on a fake smile so she wouldn’t be freaked out by the raging feelings of possession and obsession that were clawing at my insides. “Hey, baby. Ready to go?”
She glanced behind her nervously, then gave me a smile as fake as my own as she stepped into the hall and pulled her door closed. “Yep. I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to come in. I was going to meet you outside. ”
Before she could close her door completely, I flattened my palm on the flat surface and held it open. Then I used the other hand to gently push her stomach so she backed up into the apartment.
Glancing around, I was impressed with what she’d done to the shoebox she lived in. The place was clean and tidy, and she’d hung posters of beautiful paintings on the walls. She also had personal photos scattered around, as well as little knickknacks and flowers to make the space homier.
And when I used the word “space” I was being incredibly generous. The room couldn’t have been more than one-hundred square feet. There was a sink, mini oven, and mini fridge in one corner. The kitchenette didn’t have any counter space, but Skye had one of those small, rolling islands to give her a place to prep her cooking.
The back wall had a loveseat situated next to what looked like a very tall, large cabinet that had to be a murphy bed. On the opposite wall was a little table with seating for two and a tall dresser.
Despite admiring how she’d worked with what she’d been given, there was no fucking way she was spending another night in this shot hole. Especially not when the locks on the doors were so damn flimsy.
“I like what you’ve done with the place, Skye,” I complimented, to soften the news I was about to deliver.
Her cheeks turned pink, but I could tell some of it was from lingering embarrassment. I hated that she thought I would judge her for where she lived.
“This building reminds me of the one I grew up in,” I offered as a way to help bridge the imaginary gap she saw between us. “We kept it in much better condition, taking pride in making it a home, just like you’ve done with this room.”
Her eyes went round, and some of her tension began to ease. “You grew up in a building like this?”
I chuckled and crossed my arms over my chest, then leaned back against the wall. “Yup. I wasn’t always a pro-athlete. I lived in Harlem until just a few years ago. Granted, I’d moved into a much bigger apartment and moved my parents into one as well. But my friends and family—blood or otherwise—were there, and I’ve never let go of my roots. I only bought my current place because the penthouse was a good investment and closer to the stadium.”
“I didn’t know that about you.” Her smile was genuine as she relaxed and stopped worrying.
“That being said. Get your shit because you are going home with me tonight.”
“Wait…I’m what?” she sputtered.
“My fiancée is not living in this shithole with locks that a toddler could pick, and a shared bathroom that is used by pervs doing fuck all knows what in there. So pack a bag and I’ll get the rest of your stuff moved to my place tomorrow.”
“But…”
“No arguments, baby. You can do as I’ve asked and we can get the hell out of here, or I can shove some shit in a bag and carry you out over my shoulder.”
After a few seconds, her mouth snapped shut and she walked toward the only other door in the place—probably the closet—mumbling about how I’d ordered, not asked.
Damn straight.
“You have ten minutes. I’m just going to step into the hall to make a quick phone call.”
Skye huffed in annoyance but opened the closet and dragged out a small carry-on.
Satisfied that she would do as she was told, I walked back into the hall and closed her door behind me. I dug my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for my friend and lawyer, Aidan Bryant.
“Dempsey,” he greeted when he picked up after two rings. “How’s it going? You’re killing the season so far and—” A woman’s voice said something in the background, and he stopped talking to listen. Then he chuckled. “Bianca wants to know if you’re coming to the barbecue next weekend. She’s insisting that I do something lawyer-y to force you not to cancel again.”
I couldn’t help smiling. Aidan’s wife, Bianca, was adorable and had become like a little sister ever since she married my friend. Their kids even called me Uncle Demy—it was how their daughter Jaelynn had pronounced my name as a toddler and it just kind of stuck. “Tell her I’m sorry and I’ll definitely be there. I’ll even bring my wife.”