Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
I stand, shaking off the heaviness, and finger-comb my curls until they fall in loose waves. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks put together. Normal. That's the thing about playing house. It's all just masks and scripts.
My phone buzzes. Punk, this time.
Punk: Got Nonna's ping. You sure about this?
When am I not?
That's what worries me.
I pocket the phone and head toward the kitchen, toward the sound of Asher's voice, toward another day of pretending I'm something I'm not.
The choker sits heavy against my throat. A reminder.
You're stuck with me forever.
Funny. That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
The bagels arrive warm, wrapped in white paper that's already starting to go translucent from the butter. Asher dumps the bag on the counter and starts pulling out containers—lox, cream cheese, capers, red onion sliced paper-thin.
“You ordered half of Russ & Daughters.”
“You looked hungry.” He tears into his everything bagel without ceremony, cream cheese oozing out the sides. “Also, you get violent when you're not fed.”
“I get violent for lots of reasons.”
“Name three.”
“You. You again. You a third time.”
He grins around his bite, and I hate how boyish it makes him look. How it transforms all those sharp edges into something softer. Something that makes my chest do stupid things.
I grab my own bagel—sesame, toasted dark—and start building. The domesticity of it sits wrong on my skin. Like wearing someone else's clothes.
“So.” He licks cream cheese off his thumb. “The Thor dream.”
“We're not doing this.”
“We absolutely are.” He leans against the counter, hip cocked, watching me with those glacier eyes. “On a scale of one to ten, how much did dream-me suffer by comparison?”
“There was no comparison. You weren't there.”
“Harsh.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “And here I thought I'd at least earned a supporting role in your subconscious.”
“You'd have to matter first.”
That was mean. Fuck. He's right. I do get scholar if I don't eat. Something flashes across his face—there and gone before I can name it.
His phone rings.
He glances at the screen and his entire body changes. Goes rigid. The playful energy drains out of him like someone pulled a plug.
“I need to take this.” His voice is different. Colder.
He's already moving toward the living room, but I catch the name on the screen before he answers.
Atlas.
“What?” No greeting. No warmth.
I can't hear the other voice, but I watch Asher's jaw work as he listens. Watch his free hand curl into a fist at his side.
“That's not—” He cuts himself off. Breathes through his nose. “Nah fuck that.”
More silence.
“I don't give a fuck.” The words come out low, dangerous. A voice I've never heard from him. His annoyance turns into a sarcastic chuckle that raises the hair on the back of my neck. “Mmm. Someone's got the story twisted, huh?”
He disconnects without saying goodbye, stands there for a moment staring at the black screen like he wants to throw it through the window.
When he turns back to me, that mask is already sliding back into place. But not fast enough. I saw what was underneath. Raw fury. Something wild and barely leashed.
“Everything okay?” I ask, now it's my turn to test the maniac.
“Peachy.” He shoves the phone in his pocket. “I have to head out for a bit. Later today.”
My eyes widen playfully. “Mysterious.”
“Family thing.” The way he says 'family' sounds like a curse. “I'll be back in the morning.”
I take another bite of bagel, watching him try to reassemble himself. “You know I don't actually need a babysitter, right?”
“Who's babysitting?” He's back at the counter now, but there's still tension in his shoulders. “I just like knowing where you are.”
I clear my throat, shuffling forward. “I believe that's called stalking.”
He glares at me. “That's called caring.”
“Same thing.” I hop up on the counter, legs swinging. “Besides, I'm five years older than you. If anyone needs supervision here—”
“You're twenty-nine.” He steps between my knees, not quite touching but close enough that I feel the heat off him. “In the grand scheme of things, that's nothing.”
“In the grand scheme of things, you're practically jailbait.” My lips roll beneath my teeth to try to stop my laugh.
He chuckles, dark, rough. “Never stopped you from looking.”
My mouth drops open. “I don't—”
“You do.” He plants his hands on either side of my hips, caging me in. “But if it makes you feel better, I've always had a thing for older women.”
“Five years is not—”
“The experience.” His voice drops, eyes tracking down to my mouth. “The confidence. The way they know exactly what they want.”
My throat goes dry. “And you think you know what I want?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, threatening that dimple. “I think you're terrified of wanting anything.” His thumb brushes my knee, barely there. “I think you've convinced yourself that caring about someone is the same as handing them a weapon.”