Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
“You,” he says in a raspy tone when he’s done looking me over. “Bubblegum pink.”
“I’m…”
I forget what I was going to say because after he’s done with his once-over of me, he moves on to my room. And I realize that this is the first time he’s staring at it, my personal sanctuary, my personal things.
My bedroom walls, the rugs on the floor, the desk by the window he climbed into.
All of which are soft and pastel shades of pink.
But it’s nothing compared to how hard he stares when his gaze finally reaches my bed.
At my rumpled sheets and my strewn-about pillows.
My diary.
He stares at it the hardest.
“You still call it Holly?” he asks when his eyes — super intense all of a sudden — come back to me.
My heart slams in my chest. “No.”
“Because it’s not pink.”
I swallow. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s the only thing in your room that’s not pink.”
“Yes.”
Yup, the only thing.
The most precious thing in the world to me is not pink. I know it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense, but one day I got this urge to pack up my pink diaries and get a new one that’s brown leather.
Dark brown leather.
“So what is it called then?”
My heart beats so forcefully then that I feel like my chest is turning black and blue.
My whole body is turning black and blue.
“That’s…” I clear my throat. “None of your business.”
It isn’t.
Nothing about me or what I do is any of his business.
So I’m not sure why I feel a pinch in my chest when his expression shutters and a cool mask takes its place. “You’re right. Not my business at all.” He sweeps his eyes over my room once again before coming back to me. “But good to see that not everything in your room is covered in unicorn vomit.”
I purse my lips. “Now that you’ve insulted me to your heart’s content, do you mind telling me what you’re doing here.”
“Saying hey.”
“What?”
“We’ve got things to talk about.”
“What things?”
I’m confused.
Very, very confused.
I’m also distracted.
By his biceps.
Because they’re flexed right now. Taut and bulging.
And that’s because his arms are folded across his chest as he casually stands by my window, his hip propped against it, his ankles crossed.
As if we’re having a normal conversation.
As if this is a regular occurrence.
What in the fuck is going on?
“For starters,” he rumbles, unfolding his arms and pushing off the window, “let’s talk about how we have so much in common.”
“What?”
He takes a step toward me. “How you live in my house.”
I glance down at his boots before looking up and taking a step back. “This isn’t your house. This is your family’s house.”
Another step forward. “How you work for my family.”
I take another step back. “My parents work for your family.”
“How that dress you’re wearing right now,” he motions with a jerk of his chin, “was bought with my money.”
“It’s your parents’ money that my parents have earned. Through hard work. Which you probably don’t understand the meaning of.”
My dig doesn’t faze him, however.
His expression is unmoved as he takes yet another step toward me. “How the cake that you had last night was bought from my money too.”
I’m forced to take another step back. “What? That’s… How did you…”
I did have a cake last night.
And well, since my mom was super busy with her job, she didn’t have time to bake so she bought me one from the bakery, promising that she’d bake for me next weekend. But how did he know that? How…
“And the little party you’re planning to have tomorrow,” he goes on, “with your little school friends, my money’s gonna pay for that too.”
Oh God.
How does he… know?
“How do you know all that? How —”
“But most importantly,” he takes that last step, his eyes swirling with something, “how you’re dating my best friend.”
My spine hits the bedpost then, my body coming to a jarring halt.
But his words hit me harder.
They hit me right in the center of my chest and I know.
I finally know why he’s here.
I can see it in his eyes, how heated they are, how harsh.
How his jaw is pulsing, how tense his large frame is.
“I —”
“How he came all the way from New York to see you tonight. For your fucking birthday.”
“Reign, I —”
He puts his arm up, gripping the bedpost that I’m glued to, up above my head. “And how,” his grip on the post tightens, those distracting biceps of his bulging, threatening to rip his dark t-shirt, “you broke his heart in return.”
I’m threatening to rip mine as well, my dress, at this.
With how tight I’m clutching it.
“I… I’m…”
“You did,” he growls, “didn’t you?”
I swallow thickly, looking up at his angry face, my heart twisting and clenching in my chest.
And I can’t help but ask, “Did he… Did he call you?”
“What the fuck do you think?”