Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
What a job. I don’t answer, and Scottie wanders off to call Brenna.
Wincing, I pace over to the back window. The snow is basically gone now, only little clumps left in the corners. I have a terrace garden I could sit in if I wanted to. But I don’t think I ever have.
Rye comes to stand next to me and then Whip appears on my other side. We’re silent, staring out at the city as Scottie’s voices rises and falls with annoyance.
“I can’t have sex anymore,” I mutter.
Whip shoves his hands into his jeans pockets. “Well, not until your treatment is done.”
“What’s that, like, a week?” Rye adds.
I rub the back of my neck. “That’s not the point. I’m not risking this again.”
Rye glances over at me. “You’re just done? With sex?”
“I don’t know. Whip has it right; I can’t do casual. But I’m not looking for serious either.” The last thing I want is a girlfriend. I’m a fucking mess, and there is no way I’m giving someone that much power over me.
Whip nods. “Like I said, you either become really well acquainted with your hand or you hire someone.”
“Make a mental note not to touch Whip’s hand,” Rye says to me.
Whip gives him the finger as I sigh.
“None of those options appeal.” Double fuck.
Rye’s heavy hand lands on my shoulder. “I guess you’re screwed, J.” He snorts. “Or not screwed, if you want to get technical.”
Don’t I know it.
Chapter Six
Stella
* * *
Despite having a new neighbor who refuses to get out of my damn head no matter what I do, living in Killian James’s house is a dream. I have a bad feeling it is going to be hard to give it up. How do I go back to those tiny, lightless closets that people in this city call apartments? I’m already getting attached to sweet Stevens, who follows me around the house like a fuzzy bodyguard.
He watches as I set up my yoga mat on the terrace. An actual terrace. In New York City. I’m almost giddy. The sun shines bright on the flagstones. The wide space is modern with low-slung loungers and couches set up in groupings around a square-shaped, stone-and-steel fire pit/water fountain. Right now, the water is on and dances merrily of the din of the city below.
As I start my sun salutation, I can’t help looking at the wall that divides my terrace from John’s. It’s lower than I expected it to be, about chest high. Lush potted trees and flowering vines are visible, and I have the overwhelming urge to peek at John’s terrace, because it looks like a verdant garden in comparison to Killian’s austere space. Not what I expected of my neighbor.
But I don’t really know him at all. I haven’t seen him for a week. Not like I’m trying to see him. But it is odd that we never run into each other. I wonder if he’s avoiding me.
“Ridiculous,” I mutter, moving into a plank pose.
I hate plank poses. My body quivers, fire racing along my chest. I’m pretty sure my boobs are warning me that they’re about to jump ship and run away. I hold the pose for a scant five seconds before falling down with a loud “oof.” But I’m getting better. At least now I can do a plank. Before, my hips never left the ground, no matter how hard I tried to lift myself. Progress is good.
Except now I’m supposed to straighten my arms and gracefully move up into a downward dog. I huff out a laugh, and get myself in alignment for a second before my upper body says, “Nope. Nope. NOPE.” I bobble the move and probably look like a drunken turtle doing it.
Upward facing dog pose is a sweet relief, stretching out my poor arms. But my thighs and calves burn in protest. I breathe in and out, holding the position, soaking in the warm sunshine.
The gentle tinkling of water soothes and a soft breeze rustles the treetops on John’s terrace. In the distance is the ever-present melody of New York: horns and sirens and random rattles. It comforts me as much as anything else, and I find myself sinking into that nice, chill headspace, only to be yanked out of it by the harsh riff of a guitar. The pavers beneath me vibrate.
Damn rock star. Has he no respect for anyone else? He’s not even trying to keep it down. It just gets louder, angrier. It’s like I’ve landed in the middle of a concert, for fuck’s sake.
Grumbling, I get to my feet and march over to the wall that separates our spaces. There’s a low stone bench on Killian’s side, and I stand on it to peer over the wall. The sliding glass doors on John’s side are wide open, but I don’t see him anywhere.