Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Almost midnight.”
He cracks a lid. “I’ve been out here for hours. I told him the sleepovers had to stop.”
“It’s nice that you’re willing to give him privacy for his fuckfest or whatever, but I think it’s safe to let yourself in at this point, don’t you?”
He flings a hand out in the direction of the elevator and lets it flop to the floor. “I lost my card down the shaft; otherwise I would’ve let myself in a long-ass time ago.”
Seeing him like this frames him in a different light. It doesn’t make me dislike him less, but I feel kind of bad for him. He’s obviously badly injured, and being stuck out here in the hall all night would suck a lot.
“Do you want to wait it out at my place until Screwpalooza is over? You’re more than welcome to lie here all night, but I don’t think it’s going to be comfortable, and considering how late it is, you may be here until morning. Unless you’d rather me help you back down to the lobby so you can get a new card.” He doesn’t look like he’s in any kind of shape to do more than lie there, but I figure I’ll give him options.
He rolls his head toward the elevator and then in the direction of my door. “Your place is closer.”
That one detail seems to be his tipping point. He tries to pull himself up. It’s an arduous task, based on the amount of grunting and moaning he does. He stays upright with the help of his crutches and the wall while I unlock my door and let him in. He heads directly for the couch, spins around with an impressive amount of grace, and lowers himself gingerly.
He manages to get the upper half of his body supine and on the cushions, but he can’t seem to do the same with his legs.
I’m still standing near the front door, unsure how bad an idea it is to have invited this guy into my space. I don’t know anything about him, other than the fact that he has a brother who apparently holds the womanizing title and that he’s been a jerk to me.
I watch him struggle for another minute before I finally offer him some assistance. He seems reluctant to take it but eventually acquiesces.
I start to lift one leg, but he shouts, “No!”
I drop it back to the floor, and his shoulders curl in on a groan.
“Shit. Sorry.”
He sucks in a bunch of deep breaths. I can’t decide if he’s being overdramatic or not. Or maybe he’s on drugs. Who the hell knows? I’ll be locking my bedroom door and sleeping with my phone under my pillow tonight, that’s for sure.
“Both legs at the same time,” he finally croaks.
“What’s the magic word?”
He cracks a lid and glares at me from a single eyeball. “Please.”
“Look at you, using manners and shit.” I manage to get the lower half of his body on the couch. He barely fits. As it is, his feet hang over the armrest. “I’m going to get you a glass of water and a painkiller, okay?”
“Just the water is good. Thanks.” His eyes fall closed, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Despite his red face and the fine sheen of sweat dotting his forehead, he’s still a good-looking asshole.
I leave him there, somewhat assuaged by the amount of pain it causes him to move. I grab him a pillow and blanket, then stop in the kitchen to pour him a glass of water. I make it a plastic tumbler, since his coordination seems questionable.
By the time I get back to the living room, where he’s sprawled across the couch, his breathing has evened out. I set the water on the coffee table and drape the blanket over his huge body. His feet still poke out, but at least he’s mostly covered. I gently slip a hand behind his head and lift enough to slide the pillow under his neck so he doesn’t wake up with a terrible crick. Well, no worse than the one he’ll probably already have, considering how I found him in the hallway.
He hums in his sleep and frees one of his hands from the blanket. His fingers wrap around my wrist, lapping each other. I suck in a breath at the unexpected contact. A zap of electricity pings through my arm, like static.
His eyes flip open, locking on mine. They’re hazy and glassy with pain and exhaustion. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” My voice is all breathy, like I’ve been running laps.
“I didn’t want you to be this nice.” He lets go of my wrist, and his eyes slide closed.
I don’t know if I misheard that, or misunderstood it, or if it’s supposed to make any kind of sense at all.