Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
"Riley," he says, an unease in his tone.
I clear my throat again, but it does nothing to dislodge the emotion clogging it.
Then his warm hand is on my arm, stopping me from grabbing my clothes and finding another place in the house, one without a witness, to get dressed.
"Riley," he repeats when I keep my eyes downcast.
He pulls in a ragged breath, and it angers me further. As if the man has any right to be annoyed right now.
"It has nothing to do with satisfaction. I'm beyond satisfied. You feel like an addiction at this point, that what we've done is so fucking good, part of me is screaming to stop, that it can't be good for me."
That is not what I thought he was going to say, and the surprise of hearing it forces my eyes to his, but there's no smile on his face. He doesn't seem like he's lying or saying something to try and take the sting out of what I thought he was feeling.
His eyes search mine, but he remains silent for several long beats.
My jaw flexes as I try to think of any reasonable explanation for him wanting me the way he does, and that right there is a red flag on its own. I've worked way too damn hard for me to be questioning my self-worth because of the value I've somehow placed on who he is and what I deserve because of how he looks on the outside.
My confidence is taking a hit because he's paying attention to me and telling me that he wants me, all the while saying he shouldn't.
I don't have a clue on how to deal with this situation, so I do what I've always done.
I walk away, grab my clothes, and leave the room.
I'm not surprised when he doesn't try to stop me.
Chapter 22
Mac
Yesterday was weird. Probably one of the weirder days I can recall ever having.
The morning was strange in Riley's kitchen, then the absolutely fantastic sex, both in the kitchen of my house and then the things we did in the shower, and then... everything just took a turn.
After Riley left the bathroom, I took a few minutes to dry off and get dressed, and by the time I made it back downstairs, she had her headphones in again and was working on removing the doors to the cabinets as if nothing had happened.
She didn't dance and sing like she'd done before, and I didn't question why the sudden change in her behavior. A therapist would probably label that as avoidant behavior, but I know better than to bother a woman when she's in a mood, despite it not sitting well with me.
She didn't say a word to me the rest of the day. She didn't engage on the drive back to her house, and the silence went on for so long that I felt that talking would make it even more awkward. She didn't wait for me to open her door, which made my jaw hurt from grinding my back molars together so tightly, but I stayed quiet.
She didn't slam the front door to her house in my face after unlocking it and stepping inside, but I knew better than not to consider that even a partial win. She disappeared down the hallway and never came back out of her bedroom.
She wasn't in the kitchen this morning, and I stood at her bedroom door, ready to lift my hand and knock so I could ask her if she wanted me to leave, but I didn't in fear that she'd say yes. I don't want to be gone. I don't want to walk away and never look back. There's a part of me that knows she's going to be someone important in my life, and I'm not thrilled at the prospect of her cutting me out before I can even determine what role we'll play in each other's lives.
But then again, maybe I'm just insane. Maybe the great sex with her is nothing more than smoke and mirrors, a way of my body trying to convince me that she's the one for me.
My day continues to get worse when I drive down Main Street with thoughts of cupcakes from the bakery racing through my mind, only to see several work trucks outside of the Old McGee Theater. I stop in the middle of the road and watch as several crews of men pile out of the vehicles with an Austin-based logo emblazoned on the sides.
Mr. McGee doesn't even respect me enough to tell me personally that he chose the other company, but I guess I can't blame the man. It's not like I'm in any position to take on such a large job when my own house is still in shambles.
Knowing that still doesn't take the sting out of seeing people from out of town getting ready to work on the place. They didn't spend summer afternoons there trying to beat the Texas heat with a matinee, a bucket of stale popcorn, and a cold soda with their dad. They'll never treat that place with the respect it deserves, and although I should probably feel like it'll serve Mr. McGee right that they won't pay attention to the same level of detail that my company would, it only makes me sad.