Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
That’s when I notice the note at the end of the bed. I pick it up, recognizing her handwriting.
Make sure to feed Felix.
P.S. I stole one of your shirts after I vomited on myself.
Thanks xx
When did she vomit on herself?
A deep sigh escapes me. This girl may very well be the death of me. I go to the kitchen, and the little monster follows me. I see the cat food on the counter and one of my bowls on the floor, full of water.
I look between the tin and the cat, confused. How much does a kitten even eat?
CHAPTER 11
Billie
I’m nursing the biggest fucking headache of my life and embracing my mortification. I skipped our hot yoga class this morning, and instead, I’m grumbling my complaint in my living room with the shades closed as I nurse a bowl of popcorn while trying to watch TV. But so far, all I’ve managed to do is switch through multiple shows, not processing at all what’s happening because my thoughts keep drifting to a certain grumpy killer.
I consider texting him to say thank you or sorry or how’s Felix, but every time I pick up my phone, I put it back down. Ford and I don’t text. It’s like a silent rule. I have to remind myself that we’re just fucking.
Well, you didn’t get any fucking done last night when you passed out in his car and woke up in his bed.
And the cat…
I slap my forehead.
The front door bursts open, and Ivy skips inside, wearing the same clothes she had on last night. “What a fucking night!”
She closes the door behind her and then looks at me. “Oh shit. You look rough.”
I’ve always cursed her for being able to hold her alcohol better than me.
“Is that a barf bucket?” she asks, pointing to the bowl resting on my stomach.
“Popcorn.”
“Uh-huh. And how much of that have you actually eaten?” She throws her jacket beside the door. The bitch is a slob, but I love her, and it’s not so hard to live with her considering we lived in the same building in London. “Are you going to be okay for the party tonight?”
I groan, wanting to bail on the formal event. I understand that we have to show our faces every now and then at high society functions, but it’s just a cover for the truth of what our families actually do. And I’m certain quite a few people are already tapped into what that is.
“I’ll be there,” I say merrily because I don’t want to admit defeat due to a hangover.
Ivy takes the bowl of popcorn and throws a few pieces into her mouth. “That cat’s not here, right?”
“No, I took it to Ford’s.”
She laughs at that. Hard. “You dragged a stray into Ford’s house? I can’t believe he actually let you.”
I groan in response and put my head on her shoulder. “I named it Felix.”
She laughs harder. “Ford and Felix. Has a ring to it, no? I can’t wait to tell the others.”
“Please don’t,” I say quietly. “I don’t want Dutton thinking anything weird just because Ford picked me up.”
“Why wouldn’t he be grateful that Ford picked you up while you were smashed and then dropped you off safely?”
Except he didn’t drop me off at home.
And it’s not the first time I’ve been at his house.
I give her a look, and she sighs. “Then again, your brother is pretty psycho. Always has been,” she states, patting my head where it rests in the crook of her neck. Ivy and I have always been close. My mother and Alina are also close, which means we basically grew up as sisters. The difference is she doesn’t have an overbearing brother, although Dutton had many times shooed away boys who tried sniffing around her in our younger years.
The doorbell buzzes, and I groan. Who could be dropping by at this time?
Ivy laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”
“How was your lover boy?” I ask as she goes to the door.
“Oh, you know, another one to cross off the list. He wasn’t great, but it was enough to scratch an itch,” she says, looking at the security camera. “That’s weird. Did you do any online shopping?”
“No.” I groan. The last few years, the only time I go on shopping sprees is for my birthday when I’m using my parents’ credit cards. Or when Dutton is overbearing and pisses me off, I use his credit card to make up for him cockblocking me and especially on my birthday, because I like to spoil myself. That tab builds up pretty quickly.
Today, however, is not my birthday, and Dutton hasn’t pissed me off this week. Yet.
“Are you sure?” she asks, opening the door to a man who kindly greets her with a rack of hanging garment bags.
“I have a delivery for Billie Taylor,” the man announces.