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)
And now I'm worried about a boy with pretty eyes and a mouth that promises sin.
Priorities, Ivy. Get your fucking priorities straight.
I shove the phone deep into my pocket, the same way I wish I could everything else in my life.
“Okay, and what about this?” Punk sniffs, tightening her hair in the pony she has piled it into. “I’ll come to the third one because I won’t be fucking sick!” Punk has never been interested in the slopes. Not ever. It’s cute that she’s trying now that she’s dating Atlas.
Luce zips up her coat. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? If only to watch your brother-in-law take on the games?”
Punk clutches at her stomach. “I wish I could. I don’t know what I ate yesterday, but I feel off this morning.”
The alcohol. And the lack of food.
I don’t say voice it. We’ve all lived through our range of eating disorders, and I’m not about to trigger Punk’s.
“Doesn't matter.” Atlas pulls her against him, her small frame disappearing into his chest.
Camille presses herself into Asher's side. Guilt sinks its teeth into my ribs, gnawing at bone. I'm stealing this from her. Some people search forever for their person. Maybe he's hers. Maybe I'm the villain in her story.
“If you don't change your face—” Luce's elbow finds my ribs, her smile forced and brittle. “You're going to broadcast that you want him buried in your guts instead of hers.”
I feel his eyes on me before I spot him, a specific warmth crawling over my skin. When I look up, Asher's stare is a physical thing connecting us across the room, holding me captive. My lungs freeze.
Altitude. That's all it is.
And lack of oxygen.
“Is the A/C on?” I dip down to one of the drawers in the island of the kitchen, pretending to look for something. Anything. Hopefully a thing that would make sense when I — “A-ha!” I pop back up, holding a small tin. “I knew I stashed this in here.”
“You did not!” Luce gasps, snatching it off me and popping open the lid.
I snap it closed and take it back, dropping it into the pocket of my bomber jacket. “I did. Let’s go.”
We bolt from the house in a chaotic mess, and when Jord rushes us into the waiting city car, I'm painfully aware of who's next to me.
Asher’s thigh presses against mine, searing me right through his jeans. Shit. How the hell did we land in this arrangement?
“Where's Parker?” Jord stares out the window opposite me.
I shrug. “Sick. Whatever they drank last night must have been good.”
“Speaking of,” Luce murmurs without looking up from her phone. “Where did you all go?”
How’d I end up sandwiched between both Jameson boys?
When his thigh rests against mine again, I reach into my pocket for my phone, desperate for a distraction. When the hell did I become such a fucking school girl?
“Everywhere,” Asher answers absently, but judging by his tone, I’m gonna say that it was uneventful. “They were the only two who ate, so maybe that was it.”
Resting back, I open the last text I sent to Leon as the car ascends the steep hill that leads to the drop-off point for Mount Void.
I miss you this time of year.
The text bubbles start and warmth fills my fingers. I need Leon. I’ve missed him more than I’d ever admit lately.
If it makes you feel better, Nonna has made me watch fucking Greece.
Ignoring his obvious purposeful typo, I tap out my response.
Psshhh. She has excellent taste. It’s you that is outdated.
“Oh please, tell me you’re messaging Leon.” Luce can’t help but stir the pot.
I glare at her as the car rolls to a stop. “Of course it’s Leon.”
Asher’s thigh taps against mine, but before he can be completely obvious, I fling the door open and—crap.
Onto a single camera lens.
“Fuck.” I blink up at the barrel staring back at me. I can think of a few different kinds of barrels I’d rather be looking at than this one.
A heavy hand rests on my lower belly, gracefully pulling me against his body as he steps out of the car.
I don’t have time to process the possessive nature of his actions when the reporter starts popping off.
“Ivy, how do you feel about Asher’s performance? Do you think he’s going to take the trophy?”
“Uh…” Words catch in my throat. Okay. So this has thrown me off.
I flash my best Barbie smile. “Not likely. He's a bit… off this year.”
The hand on my belly tightens. It’s both a warning, and a claim.
His fingers span wide enough to brand me through layers of winter gear, and I shift forward, testing boundaries I shouldn't.
He forces me back against him as the reporter closes in on me. Blonde hair whips toward my face as she ducks closer. Too close. Personal space means nothing when there's a story to chase.