Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
“You can take care of something else if you’re so inclined.” My hips bucked under the water, and I smirked at him. I was still feeling under the weather, but I wouldn’t say no to some good ole fingering. And Rhyland really knew how to strum my body strings like a guitar.
“Say no more, baby.”
He dove in, and I wondered when our bubble was going to burst.
Because it was pretty obvious something this good wasn’t meant to last.
RHYLAND
“No,” I announced simply, slamming the door to my penthouse.
It was eight o’clock—too early for anything that wasn’t morning sex, finding out you’d won the lottery, or both. I hadn’t even had my first coffee yet. I wasn’t equipped to deal with this shit.
I strolled casually toward my open-plan kitchen, flicking the expensive espresso machine to life and withdrawing my MacKenzie-Childs mug. The doorbell chimed once, twice, three times in urgent succession. This time, I dutifully ignored it. I grabbed my phone from the quartz countertop and shot Dylan a quick message.
Rhyland: Hi, it’s your favorite dick owner. Just checking in to see that you feel better.
And because Dylan was mom to a toddler and those fuckers tended to wake up at six in the morning like they had some busy, hot shit to do, she answered immediately.
Dylan: I feel so much better. Thanks. Grav and I are enjoying bagels and cream cheese on the patio if you want to join us.
Rhyland: I’m good. I’ll check in later though.
It was a good idea not to waste all my time with someone I was hardly going to see in a few weeks. And it was cruel to let Gravity keep forming an attachment to me when I had no intention of sticking around in her life in any serious capacity. Besides, I had to draw the line somewhere. When I found out Cosmos was sick, I dropped everything and ran to her. While it was nice in theory, it was a disaster in reality. I didn’t do relationships, monogamy, or loyalty. I was a hot fucking mess. Thanks to the people on the other side of my door, who were now banging on it with their fists, refusing to get the hint.
“Rhyland!” my mother chided in a rage. “Open up!”
The coffee machine tutted, and I slipped the mug inside, fixing myself a macchiato. I readjusted the elastic of my low-hanging gray sweatpants, saying hello to my morning semi, and scrolled through the headlines of the Financial Times on my phone.
“Rhyland.” It was my father’s turn to reproach me sternly from behind the door. “This is ridiculous. Not opening the door is not going to stop us from telling you the news. We’re just going to send you a long text about it.” Pause. “Worse, we’re going to voice message it to you. In five parts. Each three minutes apart. I know how much you loathe voice messages.”
True story. People under eighty who left voice messages were not fit to join polite society. We needed to banish them without parole. Who even did that?
Still, I wasn’t sold on the idea.
I sipped my coffee, sliding my ass onto a counter stool.
“You know.” My mother’s cunning tone arrived next, and God, I’d forgotten how much I hated her. How much her presence in my vicinity made my skin crawl. A coping mechanism after spending half my lifetime trying to get her to hug me, to say a good word, to accept me if not validate me. “A journalist person called me the other day. Someone from Tech World—”
My head snapped up from my phone. It was the biggest tech site in the world, frequented mainly by industry insiders.
“She told me you’re about to launch a huge app and asked if I’d be willing to talk about my soon-to-be-billionaire son. I said I respected your privacy.” She took a strategic, deliberate pause. “I might not remain so respectful, though, if you refuse to even open the door for your own mother.”
I checked the time on my watch—Apple, the absolute lowest of the lows—and groaned. Yup. It was not even 8:30 a.m., and I was already being blackmailed by the woman who birthed me.
I hopped off the stool and made my way to the door. Flung it open. My parents were standing exactly where I’d left them, my mother wearing one of her hippie tunics with leggings and a criminal number of bracelets and chains and my father wearing whatever the fuck she told him to wear. The control she had over this man had him in a choke hold. It was another reason why I was allergic to relationships. I liked my balls where they were, thank you very much.
“What do you want?” I asked tiredly, sipping my coffee.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in? Offer us some coffee?” My father glowered.