Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
“What, you think you can lock me out? Do you think that’s going to change anything? You’ve got some fucking nerve, parading around like a slut and then pretending you don’t know what you did. You think I want everyone in Marseille to know I’m dating a slut? Huh? How do you think that makes me look?”
I wince, expecting the door to come flying open the way it did that night. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. Every muscle in my body is poised to run. But the door’s too close; I won’t be able to get away.
What am I supposed to do? I have to stop him. I can’t let him hurt me.
The knife block is close to my right hand, and I reach for it without thinking–I can’t function with all the screaming in my head. My fingers close around the handle, and I slide it out of the block.
The heavy knock on the door makes me tighten my grip as I raise the knife into the air. It’s like having tunnel vision–everything but the back door goes dark, out of focus. All I see is the top of a man’s head—his short, dark hair.
I’ll cut his fucking heart out.
The sudden presence of a hand wrapping around my wrist forces the pressure in my chest out of my throat and into a scream cut off by another hand clamped firmly over my mouth. “Tatum. Look at me.”
At first, It would appear I’m blind. I can’t see him. He’s a dark blur pinning me against the counter with his body. A firm body with a hand like steel that presses into my cheeks and another that grips my wrist like he wants to break it.
“Tatum. You don’t need this.” Romero works my fingers from around the knife handle. “Remember, you’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I want you to breathe. Slowly.”
Romero. It’s Romero. And it’s Romero who smells incredible, whose touch is so warm and almost caring. He’s touching me, and I’m not freaking out–no, actually, I feel better. My heart isn’t pounding out of control anymore. He lifts the hand from my mouth, and I’m able to whisper.
“There’s somebody at the door.”
Like the stranger heard me, the man on the other side knocks again. “Yo, Pierce! It’s freezing out here!”
His eyes close for a brief moment. “It’s just a couple of old friends of mine. They’re not here to hurt anybody.”
“Romer-o!” a second voice calls out. “Where you at?”
“Two old friends,” Romero mutters before sighing and raising his voice. “Give me a goddamn minute, assholes.” The knowing laughter on the other side of the door tells me they don’t take his response personally.
“You have friends?”
He tips his head to the side. “You’re feeling better if you can be a smartass. Now, listen to me.” His blue eyes narrow to slits. “We don’t talk about what I do for work. Understood? Not a single word. I don’t even want them to know your last name.”
“You called them your friends. Why wouldn’t they know what you do for work?”
“Friends is a very loose word. I haven’t seen them in ten years. I don’t know anything about the people they are now.” He side-eyes the door when the guys call out again–teasing, taunting, maybe even a little bit drunk.
A lot can change in ten years. The brooding kid who showed up at my house somehow turned into a full-grown man full of secrets and suspicious of everybody around him. A man who smells like leather and coffee and something that does things to me it shouldn’t. My insides get all hot and jumpy, and I wish he would touch me again because his touch makes my breath come fast, but not out of fear.
“Just for once, keep your mouth shut,” he warns. “And maybe try not being a rich brat for a few minutes.”
Like magic, my insides go cold. I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth like that could erase his touch. “I can’t wait to ask your friends if you were always a heartless asshole.”
And just like a heartless asshole, all he does is snicker on his way to the door, which he opens to allow a pair of guys his age inside. They practically tumble into the kitchen like two big, goofy dogs who throw their arms around Romero for a split second before punching his shoulders while shoving him around.
Typical men. They don’t know what to do with their feelings, so they’ll beat the hell out of each other.
Their questions overlap. Where’s he been? When did he get back? Why didn’t he reach out? “We heard you were walking around this afternoon,” the taller of the two says. He’s the one I saw in the window–his friend’s hair is sandy blond and long enough to brush the back of his neck. “I didn’t believe it. I figured somebody put you out of your misery years ago.”