Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Today, I’d fallen down a YouTube hole and stumbled onto a new band that—as luck would have it—looked to be based out of Seattle, which would be convenient if Nixon ever saw fit to take us home, or hell, if he’d just send me at this point since he could barely stand to be in the same room as me.
Besides, it couldn’t be that hard to find someone else to keep him on the straight and narrow when he was doing a fine job of it all by himself.
Go figure, I’d finally let myself erase the lines between us completely, thrown caution to the wind, and he’d thrown up a wall big enough to be seen from space. It didn’t take a mathematician to put one and one together and see that Nixon hadn’t liked something about what had happened between us on that plane.
“Are you ready?”
I startled, then fumbled for my water bottle as I knocked it off my desk. Thank God the cap was on. “I didn’t realize it was already five,” I muttered.
“It is.” He leaned against my doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.
I hated that he looked so damned good. Hated that all he had to do was enter a room and my temperature rose. Hated that he’d flipped the switch back on to my sex drive only to make it perfectly clear I was no longer something he wanted. Hated the fact that I appeared to be the only woman on the planet who turned him off by getting turned on.
Mostly, I hated the way he’d completely frozen me out. I’d given in on that plane, thrown my better judgment out the door without a parachute, and this was the result? Even worse, there was nothing I could do about it. He left the room every time I tried to talk to him, and it wasn’t like I could just say, “screw this,” and leave. I was stuck with Nixon, no matter how badly I wanted him, or how big of a jerkface he was being.
This was my own personal crucible, and my pain tolerance was maxing out.
His eyes narrowed slightly on my computer screen, and I slammed it shut. “Do you want to drive?”
“Sure.” He turned and left.
“Good talk,” I muttered, taking an extra second to run a brush through my hair and locate my shoes. By the time I grabbed my coat and made it to the garage, he was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
It took exactly nine minutes to get to my parents’ house, all of which were silent, with the exception of Nixon’s playlist streaming through the speakers. Guy had a thing for moody music. Pretty sure his Spotify-recommended playlists were titled Break My Heart, Another Rainy Monday, and Down in the Dumps.
He pulled into the driveway next to Jeremiah’s truck and killed the engine.
“You seriously don’t have to come if you don’t want,” I offered for the hundredth time.
He had the nerve to look taken aback. “I like your family.”
“Right.” It was just me he didn’t like, which would make Sunday dinner all the more fun. I steadied my temper with three measured breaths, mentally listed every sweet thing he’d done for me, then followed Nixon up the porch steps. We’d have it out at home, not at Mom and Dad’s house.
“We’re here!” I didn’t bother knocking as we walked into my parents’ house.
“Oh good!” Mom called out from the kitchen.
We hung our coats on the rack and headed that way. Mom met us both with hugs, which Nixon handled with so much ease I almost smiled.
“Dad has Levi and Ashley Sandguard in the yard,” Mom told us as she fussed over the flowers Nixon had brought her.
It was official—I’d somehow broken him, taking him from a sex-crazed, arrogant rock star with a smirk that could melt the very panties off any girl, to a moody, brooding—fine, he was still a rock star—who wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole but brought flowers to my mother.
“Who is Ashley Sandguard?” Nixon asked, sliding onto one of the barstools.
“Next-door neighbor’s little girl,” Mom answered. “Her mom had to rush Carrie—that’s Ashley’s little sister—to the emergency room for a pretty nasty cut. Don’t worry, everything is fine, she just needs a few stitches.”
“So, set an extra place for dinner?” I asked, already crossing the kitchen.
“Already done.” Mom waved me off. “And I told your father we’re ordering pizza. I hope that’s okay with you two?”
“Fine by me,” Nixon answered. “Anything you need help with?”
Who the hell was this guy?
“Not at all. But I wouldn’t mind hearing how the San Francisco trip went since my daughter’s only details included the words fine and okay.” She took the stool next to Nixon’s.
Nixon’s gaze flashed to mine, and I turned away before I did something uncontrollable, like blush or throw every can in the recycling bin at his stupid, perfect head.