Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
I maintain eye contact to keep from ogling him, but fuck, he’s hot.
Stop being a creeper!
Too late, I guess.
“What? You’re not gonna Lysol me to death, are you?” I say to cut through our awkward stare-off.
But he just keeps staring at me.
Doesn’t get my humor. Fair enough. Maybe not all that funny, given what happened the last time I saw him.
“I mean, I’m the one who should be mad,” I add. “You really nailed my nose.”
He assesses my face before looking me over. Maybe trying to figure out if I have any other weapons on me. But he won’t see the knife in my ankle sheath. I’m not a fucking amateur.
“I guess.” He starts to turn back to the house, but then quickly pulls his attention back to me. “Just so you know, you try anything—before opening the door, I sent an email to a friend to let them know the last person I was with, Zane Grayson. And that officer who was here last night will—”
“I get it. Everyone will know I’m your psycho stalker killer. Can I come in or what?” I ask it like I’m some kind of vampire, waiting for his permission, and that’s how he’s eyeing me.
He’s obviously struggling with it, his gaze shifting around before he says, “Fuck it. Come on. Close the door behind you.”
He steps aside, facing me as I close the door.
“I assume you know where the kitchen is now,” he says.
“Yup,” I admit as I head in. “You want me to sit down? Or will this be like…give me my gun and then ask me to get the hell out of here?”
He follows me into the kitchen, keeping his pepper spray ready for me.
“I think it’s ambitious for you to assume I’m gonna give you your gun,” he says.
As I enter the kitchen, I have a little more time to appreciate the design. White tile floors. Dark-gray cabinets. Marble backsplash, counters, and island—all white with the occasional light-gray vein. A glass kitchen table with some clear ghost chairs around it. As appealing as the style is, my eyes are particularly drawn to a plate of jumbo chocolate-chip cookies on the kitchen island, which stir an intense growl in my stomach. Clearly some steel oats weren’t cutting it for breakfast. Not for this greedy belly.
“Nice kitchen,” I say.
“Is that sarcasm?”
“No, but don’t worry. It’s not only you. Apparently, everything I say sounds sarcastic, so my actual sarcasm gets lost in the mix.”
“I promise, not being able to detect your sarcasm isn’t what I’m worried about.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” I drag out. “He doesn’t just tremble in fear; he tells jokes too.” That one definitely doesn’t hit. “Sorry, I’m trying to make this less awkward.”
“I don’t think there’s a way you’ll be able to do that.” His deadly serious expression assures me of it.
“Um…I figure I can’t really make this any worse, so would you mind if I had one of these cookies?” I can’t help myself. They look so damn good; they’re distracting me from the reason I’m here.
“Sure. You want it heated up?”
“Is that sarcasm? Because I wouldn’t mind, if you’re seriously offering.”
His eyes narrow, and he smirks. “I mean, I’ll heat it up for you. But sit at the table. You’re making me nervous standing there.”
I make myself comfy in one of the ghost chairs. “These are more comfortable than they look,” I observe, which earns another look from Leif as he fetches a pair of tongs from a glass of kitchenware and a small plate from the cabinet.
“Guess this isn’t the conversation you figured we’d be having?” I ask.
“That’s an understatement.” He grabs one of the cookies with the tongs and plates it before placing it in the microwave.
“So…are you gonna tell me what happened last night?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“The part where you broke into my parents’ house and pulled me into a closet with a gun—”
“See? Didn’t catch the sarcasm. But at least you’re pretty.”
Too fucking pretty. I need to stop looking at him. He’s freaked out enough as it is.
“Now would be a good time to start explaining shit,” he says as the microwave buzzes to life.
“Where do I even start?”
“I’ve seen you the past couple of weeks around here. You’re living at the Morgans’ place? Renting?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve looked at me weirdly more than a few times. Are you a stalker?”
“Not in the sense you might think.”
His brow creases. “You can understand why that’s a concerning answer, right?”
“I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t been watching you. I have. Since a little before you first noticed me.”
“Why did you rent the Morgans’ house?”
“To watch you.” I don’t have any reason to lie to him. Not about this. I stare him down, surely unable to disguise my determination, my obsession.
He glances around uneasily. The microwave pings, startling him.
“I think you’re asking the wrong questions,” I tell him as he retrieves the cookie.