Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90346 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Things with Viola Fisher have been messy and fucked up for years. That’s nothing new, but the way she gave into me the other night, now that’s definitely new. This game we’re playing is dangerous, and it’s a lot worse with Alyssa. If I piss her off, it could cost me my entire career. However, if I screw it up with Viola, it could cost me everything else. Both are too risky to be gambling with and yet, here I am.
Shit, it’s only Monday and I already need a drink.
As soon as I pull up to the house, I see Viola’s car in the driveway and while part of me is relieved, the other part is terrified at which version of Viola I’ll be greeted by.
Turning the doorknob, I cautiously walk in, listening for any signs of life inside. I walk pass the kitchen and see no movement, I walk toward the living room and see her sitting quietly on the couch with another one of her nerd books.
Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun, but it looks wet, as if she just got out of the shower. She’s in her normal black leggings and a ratty college t-shirt, and her black-rimmed glasses frame her heart-shaped face. She continues reading even as I step closer, either too invested in her book, or ignoring my existence completely.
“Hey...” I say, testing her for a reaction.
“Hi,” she mutters, not even flitching.
“How’s it going?”
She swipes her Kindle, keeping her eyes fixed on the electronic page. “Fine.”
I pinch my lips together, rocking back on my feet. “Okay, then...” I mumble to myself, taking the hint and getting out of her way. For some reason, her indifference feels worse than when she greets me with a Hey, asshole or Fuck off, Travis. After all these years, it almost feels like her pet name for me—with a side of hatred.
I turn on my heels and walk to my room to grab a fresh set of clothes. Just as I’m about to walk out with a pair of shorts and a t-shirt in my hand, I see my top dresser drawer has been left open. I scan the room, looking for any other evidence that someone’s been in here, and the moment I walk closer to my bed, I smell it. I smell her.
Viola’s been in my room.
And possibly, on my bed.
Now why would Viola Fisher, president of the I Hate Travis King Club and all-around good girl, set foot in my bedroom? The corner of my lips tilt up, curiously, wondering what she was looking for and what it is she found.
That girl can shoot daggers at me until she’s blue in the face, but her body will give her away every time. She may hate me on the surface, but there’s something inside her that isn’t telling the whole story.
I walk into the hallway and peek around, to see her still sitting on the couch, reading. I want to so badly ask why she was in my room, but I’ll save that for another time.
Walking into the bathroom, her body wash scent immediately takes over my senses. A mix of fresh raspberries and something else consume me as I undress and turn the shower on. Does she have to be every-fucking-where?
Work left me tense and going to the gym helped a little, but not enough. I want to ring Alyssa’s neck for using Sloan to her advantage. She has me right in the palm of her hand and she knows it. She knows I’ve been trying to get promoted to bigger projects and the second I give in, she pulls the rug up from under me.
But how do I say no? How do I walk away from a promotion I’ve been working my ass off to get? Or rather the better question is, how do I survive the project, without Alyssa Crawford eating me alive?
I’m so distracted by my thoughts that it takes me a moment to see what’s behind the shampoo bottle on one of the shelves. What the hell is that?
Brushing both hands through my hair, pushing the water out of my eyes, I see it much clearer. Once I grab it and hold it in my palm, I know exactly what it is.
A pleased smirk spreads wide over my face at the thought of her using this in the shower, and screaming out her pleasure. I press the button, feel it come to life, and imagine Viola thinking of me as she gets herself off.
Now I know exactly why she came into my room—inspiration.
Once I’m finished, I turn off the shower, grab my towel and dry off. I don’t leave without her little toy in my hand. I’m about to give Viola Fisher a taste of her own medicine.
With my towel still wrapped around my waist, I strut down the hallway back to where she’s sitting, her nose still stuck in her eBook. I almost have to do a double take to make sure she’s breathing.