Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
It could be worse, I think to myself. You could be handing out subscription pamphlets for a magazine on its last legs to the thousands of tourists who veer past HQ every weekend like Octavia has been forced to do this weekend.
My spine snaps straight so rigidly I feel a lot taller than I am.
If it isn’t Octavia playing Magic Mike songs on repeat, who the hell is it?
I don’t know if it is anger that steamrolls into me or pity when I recall that Octavia only has one super annoying yet frustratingly hot roommate.
Caleb.
I sideswipe pity like a nun after her first nip of whiskey and head straight for anger when a reason for Caleb’s sudden obsession with Magic Mike smacks into me. He wasn’t just propositioned by Heidi’s bridesmaid after his riveting performance at her bachelorette party. He was also approached by strangers willing to pay well in excess of the five hundred dollars I offered him.
He wouldn’t do that, though, would he? He wouldn’t take off his clothes for money. He doesn’t like to be touched, and although the moron who stiffed me of a hefty deposit also had a no-touch stipulation in his contract, that’s just because he wanted extra money, right? The whole ‘no touching, but I’ll take my pants off and shove my junk in the bride’s face for an extra hundred,’ is standard stripper practices.
Right?
Unless he doesn’t really have a phobia of touch? And it was just an excuse for you to pity fuck him in a dirty alley.
I’m in urgent need of a psyche evaluation when I reply to my inner monologue. “But he wouldn’t do that. Caleb isn’t like Warren. He’s an ass, but what guy isn’t?”
With the thoughts interrupted by “Pony” commencing for the sixth time this morning, my intelligence goes right down the gurgler with them. Before I can talk myself out of it, I race out of my apartment, climb the one measly floor between Caleb’s and my apartment, then bang on the door like I’m the fashion police about to make a huge bust.
I’m not far off the mark when Caleb tosses open his front door. He’s wearing shiny black pants that could only look more revolting if they were painted onto my grandfather’s extra voluptuous thighs since they seem as allergic to my grandmother’s cooking as my backside.
Her peanut butter cookies cause my body to swell up—most particularly, my ass, hips and thighs.
I stop tugging on my shirt to hide the dozen cookies I scarfed down this morning when a smiling Caleb rakes his eyes down my body. Just like I’ll never be shy of my curves, I’ll also never let a man think he has me over a barrel.
“I came to ask you to keep the noise down.” I could leave it there, but tact will never be on my resume. “I have a guest over, and he doesn’t appreciate your taste in music.”
Caleb rakes his teeth over his lower lip before he arches a sweaty bow. “You have a guest over?”
“Uh-huh.” I fold my arms under my chest. I’m not hiding my hands because they shake when I lie. It is because I’m doing everything in my power not to reach out and touch Caleb’s banging guns that are shamelessly displayed in his white wife-beater shirt. He’s an ass, so why does he also have to be so damn pretty. “And doof doof music is a real mood killer.” I waggle my brows during ‘mood’ like I’ve never gone past second base.
My mouth falls open when Caleb replies, “I don’t believe you.” He’s lucky he keeps talking, or the only hip thrusts he’d do this week is a scuttle into his wheelchair since I want to castrate him for calling me out a liar even with me being one. “Because it doesn’t matter what music is playing. Any bastard lucky enough to sit across from you won’t pay it any attention because his devotion will be on nothing but you.”
“Ha ha…” Picture the most awkward laugh in the world then you’ll have some idea of how pathetic I sound. “Nice try, buddy, but your vomit-worthy attempt at swooning doesn’t alter the facts. You’re killing my mojo, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop.” That came out sounding as insinuating as you’d expect. I’m not talking about his poor taste in music. I’m referencing last week.
And Caleb knows that.
“I’m killing your mojo?”
I give his angled head, bowed-brow thing a whirl. “Are you hard of hearing today? I seem to be repeating myself a lot.”
His smile—kill. Me. Now.
“I’m just making sure I have all the facts straight, Jessie.”
I’m not ashamed to admit my knees wobble a little at his term of endearment. But I am proud to admit they don’t hinder my ability to walk away from him, leaving him as dumbfounded as he did me last month. “You have the facts straight, asshat.” I purge his nickname as he did mine. “Keep the noise down or my eyes won’t be the only ones tortured by your hideous getup. The building sup will be as well.”