Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
I roll my lips between my teeth, grateful for the way Brooks always seems to know how to tackle my anxiety by making me smile. “Maybe?”
“You did.”
“Did I wake you up? You sound like I just woke you up.”
“I was up. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine if you’re calling me at”—I imagine him lifting the phone off his ear to check the screen—“twelve-seventeen. Are you hurt? I swear to Christ, if he—”
“I’m okay, seriously. We didn’t even do anything. Not really.”
He groans. “You’re killing me.”
“I thought you were already dead inside.”
I hear the grin in his voice when he replies. “I know I’m basically a hundred years older than you, but I’ve still got some life left in me.”
“I’d take a hundred-year-old if he knew what he was doing.” Oh boy. I’m drunker than I thought. Or maybe just delirious with exhaustion.
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t play coy. It doesn’t become an old man like you.”
“I’m an old soul, thank you very much. Let me guess—the kid was sloppy.”
“Yes.”
“Drunk.”
“Yes.”
“Sweaty.”
“Very.”
“Where are you?”
“Right now?”
“Right now, Greer.”
“I’m in NoDa. Close to that main drag, I think, just off North Davidson Street.”
“Are you in a safe place?”
I glance around the lobby. It’s empty, but I remember the doors locking behind us when Hayden and I arrived a little while ago.
“I think so, yeah.”
“Text me the address. I’ll be there in ten.”
Only when I hang up do I realize I never asked Brooks to pick me up. He took control of the conversation—didn’t even offer to come get me—just said he would, and now he’s on his way.
A shiver glides up my spine. That kind of confidence, of competence, is hot.
Ten minutes later on the dot, a gigantic Range Rover pulls up to the curb outside the apartment building, its halogen lights slicing through the darkness. It’s gunmetal grey, immaculate in a way only a brand-new car can be. I can hear the growl of the engine through the building’s glass doors.
I step outside and immediately suck in a breath at the bite in the air. Scurrying to the passenger side door, I open it to see Brooks glowering at me, one hand on the wheel, another wrapped around what appears to be a coat.
The look on his face is murderous again. What did I do this time to piss him off?
“Get inside and put this on.” He tosses the coat onto the passenger seat. Gone is the witty guy on the phone. He’s been replaced by a glowering giant in jeans and a sweater, his hair still neatly parted but his eyes hard, mouth set.
I’m gripped by another shiver, but not from the cold. I do as I’m told and climb inside. The heat is blasting, and the seat warmer is on. It smells like new car and expensive man. Not cologne—the scent is too subtle—but aftershave, maybe. Body wash. Woodsy, earthy, clean.
“The jacket.” He glances at it. I see that it’s a Moncler, and probably cost more than what I’ve paid myself in the past three months. “Now, Greer. It’s forty fucking degrees outside and you’re practically in a bathing suit.”
I put on the jacket, an enormous puffer that smells like that body wash and feels like heaven, then reach behind me for my seat belt. “I didn’t know you could swim in jeans.”
The engine’s growl becomes more like a purr when Brooks shifts into drive. “Not funny.”
“I’d hate for you to see one of my actual bathing suits, then.”
“Stop.”
“They’re itsy bitsy.”
“Stop.”
“Yellow polka dot.”
“Don’t you listen?” he asks, but his lips twitch as he uses one hand to guide the Range Rover onto the road.
“Bikini. You’ve seen one of those, right?”
He turns his head to look at me, one brow lifted. “Are you drunk?”
“Nah.” I lean back in my seat, curling into its warmth, and sigh. “Just really fucking tired. And disappointed, I guess.”
“I could’ve told you Fratboy Slim would be a disappointment.”
“I didn’t ask you, did I?” I shoot back, suddenly touchy.
To be fair, I’m wiped. And embarrassed.
Mortified, more like it.
“No.” He puts on his blinker and looks over his opposite shoulder. “You didn’t.”
The whoosh of the heat through the vents fills the silence that settles between us. I feel bad. Brooks came out in the middle of the night to get me, and here I am, admonishing him for asking how I ended up stranded in the first place. I know he’s just concerned.
“I live in Dilworth. Worthington Avenue?”
“I know.”
I blink. “How do you know?”
“Do you not remember? Porg and I carried in that big-ass antique table for your kitchen last year. The delivery guys left it on your driveway, so you called Porg to finish the job, and he called me because I’m his strongest friend. Obviously.” He glances at his bicep, flexing it so it strains against the sleeve of his sweater.