Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
I stop and stare. Am I that awful?
Is that why she’s mixing up texts with me and apparently her fuckwit ex?
Guilt roils my guts, and I hate it.
“You’re depriving her of sleep too?” Wyatt gives me a sterner look this time. “Goddamn. Nevermore is gonna drop you like an old shoe.”
“Old shoes are easier to drop than bad habits.” I look at Dakota. “If the timelines are unrealistic and you’re truly that frayed, why haven’t you said anything? I’m not a monster. I can make accommodations.”
She shrugs slowly, squaring her shoulders before she looks at me again.
“Like you said. They’re not technically unrealistic. As long as I find the time...”
Damn her.
I glance up at the moon, high over the bay now, and back at her with a roughness in my throat.
“You never mind jumping down my throat about anything else. Why haven’t you just told me you’re not a drone and you’ll get it done when you can? I care about your lifestyle habits.”
“Because I like getting paid. Besides, it’s not all bad. A nice pile of work keeps me from having time for poetry, and you know how that goes, so—”
That wins her a smile.
“Liar. I’m willing to bet you still find time for that. Why can’t you find the time to eat and sleep in when you’re not worshipping your ivory Adonis?” I tell her.
She doesn’t answer.
Wyatt gives us a lost look.
When we both notice, we burst into laughter.
Later, back in the town car, Dakota looks at me with a question hanging on her lips.
“So, Wyatt’s the reason behind your pathological cinnamon roll needs,” she says.
“He’ll stay in his tent for days without eating. He won’t come out for anything else. Regis rolls are too sweet for me, but he loves them.”
She gives me a wary look. I can’t tell if she thinks I’m being sweet or stupid.
“It isn’t healthy, I know. He’s not well with his diet. First it was his Banh Mi obsession, the same sandwich from the same particular Vietnamese shop every day. He spiraled down from there. I’m hoping we’ll progress back to protein and vegetables at some point, but for now, I can’t let him starve.”
I’m aware of how pathetic that sounds.
Every week, I question whether or not I shouldn’t just knock him out and drag him into treatment. But if I take that last tiny ounce of freedom, of will, of pride he still has...what the hell will he have left?
“Are you guys really just war buddies?” she asks.
Where do I even begin? We are, but we’re not just war buddies like your average comrades in arms who serve together, make it home without a scratch, and laugh about it years later.
Without him, I never would’ve come home in one piece.
“Are you in a hurry to get home, Nevermore?” I ask, steepling my fingers.
She looks at me for a long second and shakes her head.
It’s terrible how I love watching her hair cascade down her shoulders when she lets it hang loose, how much I wonder what it would feel like tangled in my fist.
My eyes flick to her mouth, heart-shaped and mellow pink in the shadows.
Goddamn, do I really want her alone?
It’s late. The night yawns with danger. I may feel like I owe her an explanation, but is it worth the risk of what could happen if she’s with me—too close—without another soul around?
I don’t answer that. Instead, I lower the privacy screen.
“Louis, take us to my spot,” I say, knowing he’ll understand exactly what I mean.
“You got it, Mr. Burns.”
I raise the screen again and meet her wondering eyes.
“Patience. I’ll tell you everything soon,” I promise.
She nods, but she’s also—laughing?
“What’s so damn funny?”
“Why are you so freaking secretive? You’re like a Bond villain or something. Was introducing me to Wyatt so terrible?”
It wasn’t, even if it wasn’t my brightest idea.
I rake her with a cautious look.
“It’s not a big secret. Not really. We’re just diving into a lot of sensitive subjects tonight,” I say, hoping like hell that’ll satisfy her.
Dakota nods emphatically.
“I get it. Telling you about Jay wasn’t easy, either,” she whispers.
“Jay? Oh—the shitbag.” Knowing the prick’s name somehow makes him more real. More loathsome. I don’t want a jackass who left her at the altar having a name, a human face.
It’s too fucking horrible.
Knowing he exists and how much he hurt her makes me feel like I owe him a complimentary facelift, courtesy of my knuckles.
“Yeah,” she confirms.
“If he calls you again, tell him I’ll slap him with a harassment suit,” I snarl. “If that doesn’t work, I’ll fly to your oil town and tie him to a goddamned rig.”
She smiles, her eyes glowing with gratitude for a crime I haven’t even committed. Yet.
“I think I can handle him without my boss fighting my battles. But thanks, Lincoln.”