Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 63563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
I come awake with a jerk, tug the blankets off, and stand myself upright. Then, I grab the ring and inspect it, thinking it must be some kind of joke. Did Ellis have a fake one made? Is this her way of getting me back for the towel incident? Although, I suppose that ended with our mutual enjoyment.
Did she spend the night in my bed? I look all around like an idiot before I realize she’s not here now. Seriously, mornings aren’t for me. I have to blink several times and rake my hands through my hair fiercely before my brain kicks in, and it registers that no, she’s not here, and no, she didn’t get a fake ring made. This isn’t a joke. She got the ring off.
After we had sex.
Sex that felt intimate and right and connected. My maleness and pride know when someone is faking an orgasm. Well, it’s pretty simple to deduce that Ellis wasn’t faking it because why would she go to the trouble of faking it multiple times? She was for sure into it. If she weren’t, she wouldn’t have ridden my face and all the other stuff.
Was it too soon? Is that what broke the curse? Did I fuck everything up with my potential soulmate by falling into bed with her?
Hold up. Potential soulmate? Am I really starting to believe the curse? Wait, not starting. Do I honestly believe it? And what about the L word?
I stumble around, locate a pair of fresh boxers, and slip them on. No need to go downstairs in the nude in case Ellis is still here, having a cup of coffee. She probably wouldn’t appreciate the full male frontal walking around. I know it’s an art form, but I’m sure there’s a time and a place for it—say in a museum, on statues made of stone, or in paintings. Not in my kitchen.
I throw on a t-shirt just for extra decency, then go with jeans too, because why not? I might as well be fully dressed when I ask a thousand questions about how she got the ring off.
I hit the stairs, my brain burning up inside my skull.
How? How did she get the ring off? How did she think to try again? Why now? I have to say my dick is totally insulted. Right, I’m not going to mention that.
The kitchen is empty. In fact, the whole house is eerily silent. I leap back up the stairs, taking them four at a time—and nope, no faceplants or dickplants—and dash down the hall to Ellis’ room. The door is unlocked when I try it. The bed is neatly made, and all her things are gone.
Suddenly, a shrill buzzing explodes in my head. I nearly fall into the wall and have to grip the door so hard that if it were a lesser made door, it probably would have torn clean off the hinges. Then, I realize the sudden sound isn’t my house exploding or imploding, and it’s not the curse blowing up in my face. It’s just my phone, ringing from my room and the pocket of the jeans I wore yesterday. I have a clear mental picture of it, and it momentarily cancels out my doom premonition.
I rush to answer it before whoever it is on the line hangs up. It might be Ellis. Please let it be Ellis.
Sadly, nope. It’s my granny. Normally, I wouldn’t heave out a sigh and dread the worst—well, maybe sometimes, because when it comes to Granny, you never know—but now, I do sigh and dread the worst, although I still answer the call and force my voice to be normal.
“The ring,” Granny pants in her scratchy granny voice. “Where’s the ring?”
“Uh, I have it.” This is just getting creepy. I feel like I’ve been thrust into a B-grade horror film, and this is right where the things that sketchily climb the ceiling, the ghosts and ghouls, and the guy with a chainsaw make an appearance.
“You have it? Or Ellis has it?”
“Wait. How do you know her name? I didn’t even get a chance to properly introduce you when you were here.”
Granny makes a scratchy noise into the phone. It’s the kind of noise that scares me senseless—worse than a ranting, raving guy with a chainsaw fired up—because she only makes that noise when something terrible happens.
“Anyway, I have it,” I clarify in a very unmanly sounding squeak.
“Shit,” Granny curses. “Double shit. All the shit.” Then, she sighs. “You thought you could fool the curse, but in the end, it outdid you.”
This is getting sketchier by the minute. “What are you talking about?”
“Your family made all their money in the newspaper and magazine industry, and you haven’t even turned on the TV or checked your phone yet?”
“I generally avoid doing that first thing in the morning because I find it’s often the quickest way to spoil a day.”