Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 138526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138526 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Mr. C and I have never spoken like that over the speaker, phone, face to face or anything. Once upon a time I thought we might be becoming friends and I realized how wrong I was. Now he seems to be trying and it’s probably too late because I will never trust him again. He stabbed me in the back. How does one forgive that?
The past two days have been awkwardly pleasant, I’m glad they’re over and we’re on our way to Houston. People in the building have been so nice to me but I just don’t want the attention. They’ve been offering me compliments, stopping me to talk, disturbing my schedule, inviting me out for lunch and dinner.
It’s amazing, they’re amazing, but I’m just not very good with people. I’m awkward and jittery and after a while I start to irritate them.
Mr. C has been respectful and courteous, how he used to be but kinder now. He smiles more and speaks to me more like a friend would, cracking jokes and laughing at the things I say, enticing me into a conversation.
“Do you want to play snap?” he asks me, sitting on the seat opposite from where I’m reading a book on a plush, leather couch on the plane. This private jet is one of the most luxurious we’ve ever been on. Oh how the other half live.
Though I suppose I could be classed as the other half what with my lifestyle.
“Snap?”
“You don’t know what snap is?” he asks, raising his brows as his hands shuffle a deck of cards.
“I know what it is, I’m just not good at playing.” I cringe but also don’t want to turn him down. He’s bored and this is a three-hour flight.
“Snap is the easiest card game ever,” he tells me with a playful roll of his eyes. I watch him split the deck and sink onto my knees on the rug, the low table separating us. He smiles and does the same before laying down his first card.
I go after, perfectly lining up my seven of diamonds with his five of clubs.
He puts a queen of clubs down and I reach over to neaten it. He looks up at me, his brow quirked, his lips twitching with a secret smile, but he doesn’t ask me what I’m doing. He knows me well enough by now to know I’m not great with things being out of line.
I put my own card down again, it’s a five of diamonds, then he puts his down and I notice how he purposely puts it at an angle. I try to resist, I really do try, but I quickly adjust it and then feel the curved corner of a card hit me on the head.
“Did you just…?”
“Yep,” he replies, grinning from ear to ear. “Every time you do that, I’m going to throw something at you.”
I gape at him, fighting the urge to laugh and cry. “But… I can’t…”
“Live a little, let them be wonky.” He pushes his card back to an angle.
I grit my teeth, fingers twitching, knees bouncing. Then I adjust it. I can’t resist.
Another card hits my eyebrow and he holds his hands out, poise and ready to slide another at me.
“I told you I wouldn’t be good at playing,” I say, pouting at him.
“You’re doing great. Keep going.”
I narrow my eyes on him and throw my next card down. He laughs and another of his cards hits me on the face when I neaten the entire pile and make it perfectly parallel with all sides of the low table.
“Stoooooop,” I whine, giggling and then I throw my own cards at him, the entirety of my hand.
He throws his at me too, laughing his ass off when I start picking them up and he keeps knocking them out of my hands.
“Leave them, let them be messy for a while,” he instructs kindly, holding my hands together over the table. “Just talk to me. Ignore them.”
Does he not know how torturous this is? Being covered in cards and surrounded by them too. It’s torture.
“Tell me what your plans are for the weekend.” He keeps my wrists together in a tight grip, giving me a gentle shake when I look around at the mess we created.
“I don’t know…”
“Really? Rumor has it you’re going on a date with Pax this weekend,” he says warily and my heart stops. “Rumor has it you were caught making out with him like a teenager outside my office.”
I open and close my mouth. “I… I mean… yeah, we’re going out I guess.”
“Drinks?” the stewardess asks politely, greeting us and smiling at the mess and the fact he still has my hands pinned between us.
“This isn’t weird and like kinky or anything,” I say to her, motioning to my bound hands. She stifles her smile as I continue, “I have OCD and he won’t let me clean.”