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)
Aww. “That’s literally the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Not.
She smirks, eyes drifting toward the window, where light spills onto the rug. “I still hate you a little.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want to lose the foundation of our relationship.”
She shifts, adjusting the throw pillow behind her like she’s trying to get comfortable in a nest of spite and throw blankets. “You know what would help this relationship? You offering me the bed.”
Not a fucking chance. I was here first. “Too bad we’re both selfish and stubborn.”
“Are you calling me selfish?”
I nod, leaning to grab a grape. Pop it into my mouth. She must have brought them, because I sure as shit didn’t.
Annabelle pulls them out of my reach. “Don’t touch my grapes.”
“See?” I smirk knowingly. “Selfish.” I lean across the counter again, closer this time. “Just give me one grape, Annabelle. One. I’ve had a long day of being massaged, and now I’m being denied basic fruit access in my own damn rental.”
“Co-rental,” she corrects, and pops a grape into her mouth without breaking eye contact.
“Are you taunting me?”
Her shoulders lift. “Probably.”
I reach for the bowl again.
She yanks it back. “Dude. You’re like a squirrel hoarding snacks before winter.”
Truthfully, I couldn’t give a shit about the grapes. It’s the principle of the matter, denying me food in my own place, which she’s trying to take over. The principle of being denied basic nourishment in the very cottage I booked with my own credit card.
My knee throbs.
“Did you know,” I say slowly. “In some cultures, refusing to share food is considered a declaration of war. ’Cause I knew.”
“In this culture,” she says, smacking on another grape. “It’s called ‘setting boundaries.’”
“Agree to disagree.”
She clutches the bowl protectively to her chest. “You didn’t buy these.”
“You didn’t book this place,” I fire back. “Not first, anyway.”
Annabelle slides one solitary grape across the counter. Slowly. Like it’s hush money. Or a bribe.
I eye it skeptically.
Then I eyeball her.
Then the grape.
“You’re giving me a pity grape?” I don’t want it.
“It’s a peace grape.”
“There is nothing peaceful about this moment.”
She raises a brow. “Take it or leave it.”
I lean back, leaving the grape. I would rather hold a grudge and limp through the week by myself than accept her olive branch.
War is way more fun.
She watches me, expecting I’ll cave. When I don’t—no one likes grapes that much—her smile deepens like I’ve played directly into her hand. Please. Give me a damn break.
“Suit yourself,” she says, popping my grape into her mouth. Slowly. Eyes locked on mine like it’s a power move.
Oh, it’s on.
I stand up and limp to the fridge, then yank the door open with a little more force than necessary. My knee protests. My ego does not.
She can sit there nibbling grapes while I eat the steak and asparagus that were my leftovers from the resort. I ate at the restaurant for dinner yesterday, too lazy to cook for myself.
“Make yourself comfortable while you wait for LakeLand to call.”
“LakeStay.” She corrects me in a patronizing tone.
I grab the container from the top shelf, flip the lid, stab a piece of steak with my fork without warming it first, and pop it into my mouth.
“Delicious,” I groan, chewing loudly and with my mouth open on purpose. “Tastes like priority booking.” So tasty.
“You’re gonna weaponize your dinner now?”
“Did you want some?” I hold the loaded fork in her direction. “You said you went grocery shopping. You will not starve while you’re waiting for your marching orders.”
“My marching papers,” she revises. Meanwhile, she’s still standing barefoot in my kitchen, breathing my oxygen.
“Yes,” I say, stabbing another cold bite of steak and shoving it into my mouth. “You’ll be honorably discharged the moment LakeStay gets their shit together.”
She rolls her eyes. “You talk like you’ve claimed this house with your testosterone.”
“’Cause I did.”
“We’ll see.”
Did we not already determine that I got the bed and she would suffer on the couch while she waited for a return phone call?
“I’m not giving up the mattress,” I remind her.
“I never said you had to—but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep trying to change your mind.”
Good luck with that, sweetheart.
I’ve won Super Bowls, and you do not get this far in life by being a quitter.
Chapter 3
Annabelle
Of all the names in the universe—of all the possible human options—I had to get stuck in a double-booked rental with a man named Maverick.
Maverick.
Not Mark. Not Paul. Not Ben or Tyler or something normal. No. I get a shirtless, towel-wrapped linebacker with a name that sounds like he should ride a motorcycle, sell overpriced tequila, or crash fighter jets for a living. His name is written on duct tape and stuck to the duffel next to the kitchen island, as if he were going to summer camp.
The worst part?
It suits him.
He’s massive. Like, disturbingly massive. The kind of man who probably broke his crib as a toddler by shaking it too hard. Broad shoulders, towering height, abs that need to calm the fuck down, and Lord forgive me, but I’m dying to touch them—for research purposes, of course.