Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 126096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Nic chokes back a laugh. “Trust me, nothing in that world is ever going to be that simple.”
“Yeah, I had a bad feeling about that.”
“Alright, babe. I’m out. Dad’s out of town for the day so I’m playing boss man today.”
“Shit. Don’t fuck anything up and get yourself killed.”
I can practically hear his smile through the phone. “Can’t make any promises. Bye, O.”
Nic ends the call, and the second his voice fades away I’m left missing him so much more. I don’t know how it’s even possible, but somehow he seems so much further away than he did ten minutes ago.
I drop my phone to my stomach and just lay for a minute, but that minute quickly turns into ten and then thirty.
My stomach grumbles and the need to pee creeps up on me and I recall that after the third coffee I had this morning, I failed to actually eat anything.
I pull myself up from the bed and drag my feet across the floor to the bathroom. I guess a private bathroom is one of the few bonuses around here.
I push the door open and find myself gawking. What the fuck is that?
I walk over to the toilet, warily keeping my eyes on the second toilet that doesn’t exactly look like a toilet. It’s kind of more like a urinal but not … wait. Is this one of the bidet things mom was talking about earlier?
No fucking way.
I find myself laughing and as I drop my pants and sit on the toilet, I stretch my foot up to the little lever on the side of the bidet.
Water squirts up into the sky and my eyes bug out of my head.
No. Hard fucking no. I’ll pass. This thing really does squirt water up into your asshole. What’s a girl supposed to do? Squat over this thing and voluntarily get ass raped by pressurized water? Hell to the mother fucking no. I’d rather clean my ass with a scourer than participate in this ass witchery.
I bet Colton has one of these and I bet he loves it. He probably lives for getting fucked over by inanimate objects.
I finish in the bathroom and find the nerve to open my bedroom door. Feeling like a complete idiot, I peer up and down the hallway, making sure there’s no sign of Colton Carrington before venturing out into this big house. I don't understand my hesitation. Twenty minutes ago when he stood at my door, I practically screamed from the rooftops that I could handle his bullshit. I practically dared him to try his worst yet here I am ready to scamper away at the sight of him.
Don’t be such a fucking wet blanket, Ocean. Pick up your balls and march your firm ass downstairs for something to eat. Besides, what are the chances of running into him in a place like this? There must be over one hundred rooms in this mansion, not including the pool house, steam rooms, or stables that are no doubt somewhere on this property.
My eyes continue scanning as I make my way downstairs and when I finally come into the kitchen, I feel like I can breathe again. No sign of him. I’m safe. But now the bigger challenge is finding my way around this kitchen.
I start opening cabinets and pulling open drawers until I find everything I need to make a sandwich. It takes way longer than it should, but the bread is fresh and that’s a positive in my book.
I get busy, feeling like a fraud in this big place.
I so don’t belong here. It’s comical just how vastly opposite this world is to mine.
I busy myself making a sandwich, trying—and failing—to lose my thoughts in the task. That is until a voice calls out at the opposite end of the kitchen counter.
“Well, well, well. Who’s this you’ve been hiding?
My head whips around to find a man-boy staring at me from the other end of the kitchen. His eyes are dark, and traveling up and down my body as though I’m some kind of meal. It’s not like the way Colton had looked at me earlier, this is different … darker, and I don’t like it. What I don’t like more is the douche canoe standing behind his shoulder smirking at me like he’s about ready to start playing his twisted little games.
The kitchen is so big that the two of them are far enough away for me not to feel uncomfortable, but if the fucker with the dark eyes even thinks about taking a step toward me, I'll be reaching for the knife I'd planned on using to cut my sandwich.
Colton laughs, his smirk making it come out like a scoff. “She’s no one,” he grumbles. “The help.”
That word makes it sound like an insult and it instantly has me wanting to high-five the fucker in the face with my fist. He knows damn well that I'm not the help.