Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
He shakes his head, unconvinced. “Nope. Not buying it. No way you’re going to go outside of your apartment in just a towel without a good reason.”
I growl. “I heard a noise, okay? I was checking it out.”
“And you found something, didn’t you?”
“Quince.”
“What did you find, Turn? Tell your good pal, Quincy,” he mocks sweetly, and I sigh.
“Greer.”
“Oh, my, my. This is getting interesting now.”
“She was drunk and thought my door was hers. I helped her into her apartment, and when I went back, the door was locked.”
“Mm-hmm. And what else happened?”
“Nothing,” I stress. This whole teasing tour is all in good fun, but jokes about something happening when Greer clearly couldn’t consent are not.
Quincy steps forward and holds out the key, and I take it swiftly before he has a chance to play any other games.
“Goodnight?” he prompts as I head for the stairs. “Thank you?”
“Fucking goodnight,” I say over my shoulder.
“Did you know it’s customary to be nice to the person who’s done you a favor?” he calls. “Just a little information to tuck away for later.”
“Fucking thank you and goodnight,” I toss back just as the doors to the elevator open.
He smiles and pinches his fingers together. “Close. You’ll get it eventually. Keep practicing.”
The elevator doors close, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
The only thing I’m going to be practicing is common sense—first thing tomorrow, I’m hiding a spare key.
I need to make sure the only person I have to call for help in the future is myself.
Trent
Waking up at five a.m. to avoid going to work at the same time as Greer is brutal. My eyes are always about as easy to peel open as an apple without something sharp, and I almost always smash my toe on the corner of my bed on the way to my bathroom.
Hell, waking up that early is the worst part of every day, which is probably why this particular Monday morning, I don’t.
My sleep schedule is all screwed up, alternating between insomnia and sleeping so deeply I don’t hear the world.
So, when my alarm goes off, I’m apparently in the comatose phase of my REM cycle.
I sleep and sleep until almost seven, and now, not only am I not extremely early, I’m running behind schedule.
My tie is in some form of a knot, but I’m almost positive it’s more Clove Hitch than Half Windsor, and my shirt is only ironed on the front.
With a half-baked plan to keep my jacket on the entire day to hide that fact, I scoop my keys and phone off the kitchen island and head for the door.
I have the knob half turned when I hear activity in the hall and freeze.
Greer and I haven’t seen each other since I put her in her bed Saturday night.
I know it’s a better idea to get that interaction over with rather than having to live out any awkwardness in front of everyone on the job site, but at least there, we have roles to hide behind.
I’m the boss and she’s the designer, and there are plenty of things to talk about that don’t include the way she looked at me and my only-a-towel-covered cock, or the fact that I saw way too much of her creamy thighs, or that I’d just finished masturbating before her drunken, adorable ass started assaulting my front door.
Adorable? Really, Trent?
Hell. I don’t have time to think about this kind of shit.
I shake off those insane thoughts in an attempt to gain some sanity, but apparently, I’m all out today. Instead of simply manning the fuck up and walking out of my apartment, I press my curious ear to the wood of my door to listen for sounds of her retreat.
There’s a scuffle and a soft whoosh and then a few clacks, but when they stop, I take away my ear and replace it with my eye at the peephole.
And, instantly, I’m faced with a giant eyeball staring back at me.
Shit. I jump back a little. What the…?
Without even thinking, I engage the peephole again, and this time, instead of an eyeball, Greer’s entire face and one raised hand consumes my microscopic view.
She pauses, squinting a little, but she just kind of stands there, hand frozen in the air and her gaze locked on my door like she’s trying to attempt X-ray vision or something.
I have to step away, you know, before I do something rational like open my door and ask her what she’s doing.
Because, yeah, that’d be too easy, right?
When no knock comes after ten seconds, I tiptoe my way to the door to peek again.
She’s gone.
Ironically, I find myself disappointed.
Boy oh boy, do I love the New Orleans version of myself.
Crazy. Indecisive. Needlessly pithy and combative. Hiding behind doors and peering through peepholes. The list goes on and on.