Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
It was the best decision I’ve ever made.
Though shunning that fake friend had also been a nice high. The girl couldn’t get into a single decent club in the entire damn city for a year. And she’d lost a hundred thousand followers overnight when some gossip page posted about an ‘insider’ who knew she was two-faced.
Was it immature and petty to spend precious time bringing someone else down? Probably. But I never regretted it either.
She’s totally not even as hot as she thinks she is. If it weren’t for her daddy’s money, no one would be liking all her selfies. No one would want anything to do with her at all.
I finished two ginger ales, and my stomach seemed to settle enough for me to roll over and get some sleep.
I passed out feeling just slightly less alone than usual.
Because at least the bodyguard gave a shit. Even if he was being paid to do it.
I woke up to something I wasn’t sure I’d ever smelled in my apartment.
Food cooking.
“Ugh,” I grumbled, pressing a hand to my stomach, not sure I’d ever be able to keep food down after all that sick. “Hugh?” I called, finding the other side of my bed empty.
What time was it?
I rolled over and reached for my phone, ignoring the notifications for the first time in a long time.
Eleven.
Late.
But it had been a rough night.
I made my way into the bathroom, washing my face, pulling back my hair, then throwing on some yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt before making my way into the common area of the apartment.
And there he was.
Sexy bodyguard guy.
Jacket off.
His black shirtsleeves rolled up.
Standing over an oven I actually didn’t know worked since I’d never turned it on.
I wasn’t even sure where the frying pan he was using came from. Maybe the woman I’d hired to help me decorate had purchased that kind of thing as well.
“There you are, buddy,” I cooed at Hugh who was sitting in the opening to the kitchen, his gaze fixed on the bodyguard, likely completely at a loss for what was going on in his home, why there were yummy smells coming from that big metal thing.
“He’s been out. And fed,” the guard said, not bothering to look over at me.
“Oh, ah, thanks,” I said, feeling like I was tripping over those words.
“Sit,” he demanded, waving to the stool on the other side of the island.
That was bossy of him.
I normally would have bristled, sassed him, something. Anything but actually doing what he demanded.
Somehow, though, my feet were carrying me across the space, and I lowered down onto the stool.
He’d set out a plate and utensils for me.
As well as a big bottle of water.
Once I sat, he turned toward me, grabbed a large electrolyte packet, ripped it open, and poured it into my bottle of water before giving it a good shake.
Did I watch his forearm muscles twist as he did that? Yes, yes I did.
“Drink,” he demanded after slamming it down right by my hand.
“Who do you think you—“ I started.
“Drink your fucking water, Scarlet,” he cut me off, tone brooking no argument.
I mean, not that those tones ever made a difference to me. It was hard to intimidate someone raised around the kind of men my father always had in his circle. Big, powerful men used to others cowering and kowtowing to them. I’d learned very young never to back down, never to show signs of weakness in front of men like that.
Still, my hand went to the bottle.
And I lifted it and took a big swig.
“All of it,” he said as he turned back to the stove.
I should have thrown the bottle at him.
I damn sure shouldn’t have tilted it up and downed the whole thing.
Yet… that was what I did.
By the time I finished it, he was turning back to me, dropping two pancakes onto my plate, then a small pile of scrambled eggs.
“Eat.”
“I don’t know what—“ I attempted again as he set the pan down on the stove with a clank before turning back toward me, and towering over me.
“Eat,” he said again, tone much lower, yet somehow even more commanding.
I hated how my hand went automatically for my fork, stabbing a fluffy pile of eggs, and bringing it to my mouth.
“Good girl,” he murmured, voice so quiet that I was pretty sure I’d imagined it.
I did what he wanted, though.
I sat there and slowly put bites of food into my body, watching him as he moved around in my kitchen like it was his own, cleaning up his mess.
He didn’t look at me the entire time until, finally, he turned and pinned me with that dark gaze again.
“I can’t eat anymore,” I explained, shaking my head at my half-eaten pancakes.
His gaze followed mine to the plate then back up, holding mine until it was so uncomfortable that I lowered my own.