Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
"I'm no one's obligation," I tell him, trying to ignore the thrill of anticipation when I think about the last time he followed me home.
"I don't even know if you're safe to drive yourself," he says, stepping in between me and the open car door, effectively preventing me from closing it.
"I'm fine," I insist.
"Your hands are shaking," he says, pointing to the rattling keys in my right hand. "You've tried three times to get the key in the ignition and failed."
I know he's telling the truth, but admitting the weakness isn't going to happen. I'm stubborn that way.
I choose a counterattack instead.
"Not everyone can afford one of those push-start million-dollar SUVs, Jersey."
"Roman," he says with a hint of humor. "Call me Roman."
"Roman," I whisper, my confusion growing when doing what he asked makes his brows draw closer together.
"I haven't purchased one, but I doubt they're that expensive."
I watch his face, seeing when he tries to smile and fails. He's placating me, trying to lead me into a false sense of security as if I could ever forget that he just walked up and assaulted a man without warning.
"Caitlyn," he says, and I hate the way my name on his tongue makes me feel. "Please let me follow you home."
"I can't stop you," I mutter, once again trying and failing to get my key into the ignition.
I drop the keys on my lap and grip the steering wheel with both hands as I let my eyes flutter closed before pulling in a deep breath through my nose in an attempt to calm my nerves.
If anything, it only serves to ramp up my heart rate even higher, and I find him frowning at me when I open my eyes back up.
"Better yet, let me take you home. I don't think you're in any condition to drive."
"Want to show off that slick SUV of yours?" I ask, trying to make this conversation about anything other than the fact that I'm freaking out a little.
That other man touching me has had a longer-lasting effect on me than I'd like, and it is taking a hundred percent of my concentration not to freak out in front of Roman.
"Actually," he says, stepping to the side and waving his arm toward the parking lot. "I'm on the bike tonight."
I look past him, my eyes landing on the sleek piece of machinery. It's beautiful, the chrome and matte black countering each other perfectly, but honestly, I know nothing about bikes.
"There's absolutely no chance in hell I'd ever get on one of those death traps."
"I'm a safe driver," he says. "But I understand. I can leave it and have one of the other guys come get it. They'll pick me up at your house."
There is so much wrong with what he just said, so many things that complicate my entire life.
Anyone knowing that I was here again could be trouble. The fact that we've seen each other outside of my therapy visits to their cabin is a whole other issue.
"I'm fine."
"Caitlyn," he growls, as if he's growing increasingly frustrated. "Let me take you home."
I glare up at him, never one to let someone push themselves onto my life without repercussions.
"What are you going to do if I refuse? Pull me out of the car and force me to ride with you?"
His jaw flexes, tightening twice as he clenches before speaking. "I've heard you loud and clear about not wanting to be touched. I'd never violate you that way."
The world seems to stop turning. Most people can hear the words but somehow think they're different, as if they're immune to my rules. Most people push the boundaries just to see how far they can get before they're triggered, that's if they don't disregard me altogether for having boundaries in the first place.
"Let me take you home," he says in a softer tone. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you. Eli needs you."
The mention of the little boy hits me right in the chest. I may not have much going on in my personal life, but there are people who need me.
Instead of arguing further, I climb out of the car, dropping the keys into his upturned palm, making sure our skin doesn't touch.
He waits for me to open the passenger side door and climb inside before positioning himself in the driver's seat.
Wordlessly, he pulls out his phone and shoots off a text, one I have to presume goes to whichever guy will come to get his bike. I swear I may lose my mind if Jericho shows up outside my house. There are only so many interactions I can have with this man before I'll be forced to have a conversation with my client's parents.
The drive is silent as Roman takes the roads to my house as if he has driven there a hundred times. It's curious the ease with which he finds my home in the darkness after only being there once.