Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
But I am confused.
And it isn’t cute.
I stare down at her, debating my options: Wake her up gently and calmly like a normal human being. Make a ton of noise. Or. Go back inside, pretend this isn’t happening, and let her get eaten by a bear.
She lets out another tiny snore and rolls to her side, one hand flopping off the hammock to join her leg. She’s still deep in it as I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on her wrist—four delicate stars. Simple. Black. For some reason, that makes this whole thing feel weirder. Like she belongs here.
Which she fucking doesn’t.
This is my hammock. My rental.
My solitude.
I sigh through my nose. Long. Irritated. She doesn’t stir. Of course she doesn’t . . . Looks like she doesn’t have a damn care in the world, the trespasser!
I could leave her here until she wakes up. I really could.
I could go back inside and wait patiently, crack open another cold pack for my knee, ignore the fact that a fully grown woman is trespassing on my recovery getaway, and hope she dissolves into thin air. Or goes back into the woods from where she came.
But my knee aches, and I’m not in the mood to share.
So I clear my throat. Loudly. Impatiently.
Her eyes blink open wide, hazy and suspicious, and then immediately lock onto me—damp, shirtless, and very much scowling down at her.
“Who the hell are you?” she croaks, voice raspy with sleep and attitude. “Did you wander over from the resort?”
I blink back. “No.”
She squints harder, like that’s the least convincing answer I could’ve given. “Are you drunk?”
“What?” Why would she think I was drunk—is she out of her mind? “Are you drunk?” I return, peppering her with questions. “Did you wander over from the resort?”
“Please stop repeating everything I say.”
I am not repeating everything she says, but she’s asking some valid questions.
“This is my place,” I inform her, pointing at my bare chest. “I rented the cottage for the week.”
“No,” she snaps, sitting up straighter, voice rising. “I rented this cottage. From LakeStay. With a confirmation email and everything.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “StayCation. Different site. Same cottage.”
Fuck.
“Wait. Why aren’t you wearing clothes?” she demands, still lying in the hammock, not making the slightest effort to get up. “You could’ve at least put on a shirt before you came charging over here to accost me.”
Accost her? The fuck!
I stare down at my torso; wearing only swim trunks and a towel wrapped around my waist, I’ve spent the past two hours at the spa next door.
“You’re in my hammock. Eating my air. Breathing my peace.”
Who the hell does this chick think she is?
She finally moves. Pulls herself upright with a dramatic-sized groan and sits on the edge of the canvas, legs swinging, face pinched in concentration like she’s about to start an argument. “This can probably be resolved by calling the property owner, mmm? There’s no need for theatrics.”
Theatrics? Me?
Is she fucking serious? If I wanted to be theatrical, I’d toss her out on her ass, not stand here gaping at her like the lazy chickenshit I am. Turns out, I’m exhausted from my massage and could use a nap myself.
I huff, stalking past her and into the house, shirtless, damp from the spa next door, and standing in my living room—correction, our living room, apparently—staring at a duffel bag that does not belong to me. Or my rental.
Sneakers with red stars are by the door.
A pink water bottle sits on the kitchen counter.
Laptop bag.
The interloper marches in behind me like she wasn’t the one caught napping in my hammock five minutes ago. Humming. Humming, for fuck’s sake, as if she is Snow White in a goddamn Disney movie and woodland creatures are going to show up and fold her hoodie.
She tosses it onto a stool. “I’ll show you the confirmation,” she mumbles, finger swiping on her cell. She holds it up, presenting me with Exhibit A: “Here’s the info. All week. See?”
I pull out my own phone, thumb through my emails, and boom—same shit, different app.
Of course this is happening to me.
She nibbles her lower lip. “Well, shit. We’re both actually booked here?”
I inhale slowly. Count to five. Try very hard not to be a dick. “Guess so. Which is perfect, because I came up here for peace and quiet. And now we have to track down the owner and get you moved out of here.”
Her head jerks back like I slapped her with a fish. “Me? Why do I have to be the one to move out?”
Oh, she’s serious.
Genuinely serious.
I blink at her, slowly, deliberately. “Because you just got here. I’ve already been here two days. Unpacked. Settled in. Claimed the good pillow. This is not a time-share—it’s a bloodbath, and I’m winning.”
Get the Fuck Out!