Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Everleigh quickly wipes her tears. “Oh my god, Will . . . if you hadn’t freaked out and run down the street half-naked, we could have had a civil conversation about the misunderstanding. I did not know you thought—”
“Misunderstanding?” I lean forward, eyes narrowed at her. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Her lips part for a second as she blinks with a blank stare. Then she steeples her fingers, tapping them against her lips as her self-control rebounds, nostrils flaring with a deep breath.
“What is it they say about doctors being the worst patients? Is it possible that you can see everyone else’s issues, but you can’t see your own?”
She exhales without a single muscle in her face twitching, flexing only her practiced composure. It’s impressive. I try not to grin because this isn’t funny, but in hindsight, there were so many moments I should have known something was different about Everleigh Reichart. For example, she can’t help her analytical side from creeping into conversations. I know she’s dying to say something doctorly, but she should be thinking, Holy shit. Am I the problem?
“Why didn’t you say something to Tyler? Why didn’t you return my calls or texts? You’ve spent all this time thinking that I was going to have you arrested for statutory rape? Victoria said you were mad that I didn’t tell you my age, not that you were afraid of going to jail. Will, that’s heartbreaking. I’m so sorry.”
“Stop placating me, Everleigh. It’s an insult to my intelligence,” I say, throwing her words back at her.
She frowns, brow tight.
“Why would I tell anyone we had sex and I was afraid of getting arrested? Do you know how fucking embarrassing that is?”
“Will, I’m—”
“I know. You’re sorry.” I roll my eyes. “Just pack your shit. I’ll find you a place to live right after I murder Maren. In the meantime, don’t come into the house. You’re a goddamn disaster.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Will, I have to use the bathroom. And I take my lunch to work, so I need access to the kitchen. Also, my bras are hanging to dry in your laundry room. And I’m paying rent, so you have to abide by the rental agreement at least until I find a new place. I won’t get in your way when you bring women home for the night. Can’t we just talk about it?”
“Oh, how nice of you not to get in my way if I bring someone home.” I turn toward the door.
“If anything, I’ll be a great reference.”
What the hell?
I glance over my shoulder.
Everleigh offers a creepy smile, chin up. “Sure. I could . . . well, I could tell them you’re eager but considerate.” She gives me a sharp nod. “And you’re an above-average kisser. And you make sure the woman orgasms first. Do you know how rare that is?”
Kill me now.
I open my mouth to speak, but what can I possibly say? Is she being the awkward girl I met in California? Or is she a well-respected doctor just fucking with my mind because she can?
Her smile vanishes with a long sigh. “Will, I’m very sorry, and ironically, I need a minute to figure out the best way to make amends. And maybe you need to talk to someone. Have you thought about that?”
I laugh past a cough. “Talk to someone? Like you, Dr. Reichart?”
“Of course not me.” She shakes her head a half dozen times. “That would be unethical. And just because we’re roommates, doesn’t mean you get free therapy.” She pauses, eyes wide like her words just registered.
I squint.
“I’m mean . . .” She clears her throat. “You could get a discount. Maybe. But I can’t be your doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
Her head bobs side to side. “Well, that’s debatable.”
“It’s not. But if it were, I’d hire a therapist. Psychiatrists are just overeducated, overpaid drug dealers.”
She slides her hands into her front pockets while stepping closer to me, bringing her soft floral scent with her. “William.” She wets her red lips. “You have every right to be upset.”
“No shit.” I don’t back away.
Her gaze seeps along my face, and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Do you feel that? The sexual tension from eleven years ago is still there.”
“It’s tension minus the sexual part. I’d rather jerk off to a smoked rack of ribs than think about having sex with you again.”
Her eyebrows peak. “Oh, you have objectophilia or fetishistic disorder. Would you say the rack of ribs gives you feelings of love and desire or just arousal? Maybe even painful arousal like you don’t want to feel the attraction?”
I hate her.
“I see you have a PlayStation,” she says. “Assassin’s Creed Shadows isn’t my favorite. I mean, the combat is fine, but other parts like the hideout mode are underwhelming. We should get Dragon Age: The Veilguard. Oh! And if you like sports, let’s get Gran Turismo 7. I’m really good at it.”