Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
He stares up at me like I’m a challenge he never expected.
Then he shrugs, pops up off the lounge chair, and chugs the last of the cold coffee next to us.
“Whatever, babe. I’ll leave you alone to think this shit over. It’s your choice. I’ve got work. I’ll drop by later to hear your answer.”
My answer?
Is he serious?
He fixes his pants, putting himself back together before he gives me one last longing look at the bulge still raging in his pants.
Then, without another word, he marches back inside, shoving the door closed behind him.
Holy screaming shit!
I want to throw things at his face, wondering why I let him ruin such a beautiful morning.
If only I could truly hate Chris Triton enough to cut him out of my life like a tumor.
But I’ve got way more anger howling through me that’s pointed inward.
Chris is a natural asshole. A walking contrast. A guarded beast who has to be.
He comes by it all honestly.
It isn’t fair to wish he’d change his stripes any more than I could ask a Bengal tiger to start eating vegan.
He’s right about one thing, too. It’s my choice.
Mine, and mine alone to decide whether I walk away or keep falling in love with a man who will never give me a happy ending.
Ending this summer fling while it’s just a sad, tumultuous affair feels like the smart choice. But is it the right one?
I can’t imagine cutting it off at the knees.
And I guess that’s my answer.
The thought of a cold, abrupt end where he’s no longer part of me hurts as much as it did when we were in Vegas and I knew I’d come home to a life of having to settle for—I don’t even know.
I don’t know, but it can’t be Chris fucking Triton.
Asshole.
Protector.
Step-crazy.
And the one man on the planet who’s stolen my heart when I’ve tried so hard to keep it.
* * *
Holy shit. HOLY SHIT but she’s okay???
I stare down at Marnie’s text with a blinding headache. At least someone finds my messed-up life amusing.
The fact that I had to risk spilling my guts to her about Evie, about everything, tells me how emotionally wrecked I am this week.
Yeah, I type back. I told you, they got to her in time and everything. She should be okay, but Dad’s pretty torn up about it.
Marnie: I bet! Btw you never debriefed me on Vegas. What happened with Casper?
I squint at the screen before I send back, Casper? I feel like we’re having two different conversations...
Marnie: Mystery McHottie. Ghost dick. The guy you won’t name. Ugh, keep up.
Oof, here we go. Hazards of leaning on your gossipy best friend for support, I guess.
When I hesitate too long answering, my phone pings again.
Marnie: ...don’t tell me he actually ghosted you? Because if he did, I’ve got a glitter bomb with his name on it. Just send me his addy.
I snort laughter, even if there’s no earthly way I’d ever unleash her on Chris.
Marnie, no. It’s not like that, I send.
Marnie: Then what? Did he leave you hanging when you were all ready to do the deed? Was he a sucky kisser? Did he have a feet thing?
Delia: Ew, no! No feet. It’s just really complicated. He has some family stuff going on. And I...well, I kinda got mugged on the trip.
Marnie: Mugged? Foly huck!
I wonder why I’m telling her this. Chris rushing to my rescue just brings back the whirlwind of memories, leaving tears nipping at my eyes.
It’s okay. He was nearby and he came charging in. He saved me. We filed a police report. Still, it put a bit of a cloud over the rest of the trip. I’m sure you can imagine...
Yeah, I’m definitely lying now, and Marnie Rowdy has a nose like a bloodhound.
Marnie: He sounds amazing! So you had an action flick porno moment? Like he carried you back to your room and you guys were so keyed up it was dynamite? God, it must’ve been good.
No response.
Honestly, no words.
There’s no good way to break the news about my bittersweet wall-to-wall escapades with my freaking stepbrother—let alone the glaring fact that they never ended in Vegas.
Five minutes later, my phone buzzes on my lap, scratching my leg like an impatient kitten.
Marnie: Delia Burr. Do NOT tell me you shared a room with a guy for a week—a guy who saved your cute butt—and you just napped together. You had one bed. One.
Delia: So?
Marnie: The one bed rule! Duh. You never share a bed with a dude and actually sleep with him. You have to have sex.
Delia: Oh, yeah. That rule. I snort, rubbing a hand across my face.
Marnie: I hate you. She adds a gagging emoji face with its green tongue hanging out.
Delia: What? What did I do?
Marnie: You’re gonna do it. You’re leaving me in suspense. Do you want your semester of free lunches or what? Because you’ve got to admit you got your cherry popped.