Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 89536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
He purses his lips, letting the subject go. “Just think about it though—don’t discount the idea of having a place of your own. You shouldn’t be renting.”
The baby in my stomach agrees, letting me know it’s there by fluttering. Or maybe it’s just my imagination.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I know you didn’t lose a contact lens on the ground, and I know you’re not just here because you don’t have a place to stay.” He pauses, allowing for a short lull in the conversation. “You can tell me why you’re here when you’re ready.”
I stare in awe, wondering where this insightful guy came from and what he did to my brother. Then I remember to close my gaping mouth. Is this what having a girlfriend does to a man? Makes him more sensitive and perceptive? Because while Tripp has always been protective and supportive, he’s also always been kind of a dick.
Tripp pulls the fridge open and stares into it, pulling out a large container. “Hungry? Chandler has a thing tonight so it’ll just be us.”
I give the apple a cursory glance. “Does she spend a lot of time here?”
“She’s starting to.” He shrugs, popping the lid on the container and sniffing it, holding it out for my inspection.
My nose wrinkles in the air. “What is that?”
“Chicken and rice. It’s only a day or two old, so we should be good.”
I could do chicken and rice—if it doesn’t make me gag going down. Ha ha.
This morning sickness business is a damn drag and killing my appetite; I wonder when Tripp will notice that.
Chewy pants by my side, resting himself at my feet, finally curling into a ball.
They say pets can sense when you’re pregnant or sick—I wonder if the same can be said about pets that don’t belong to you. Is the dog aware of it? Can he tell?
Don’t you be giving away my secret, Chewy, I silently tell him, giving his ear a little pet with the tip of my toe.
“How long do you think you’ll be crashing here? A month? Two? Not that it matters,” Tripp reassures me, getting down two plates out of the cabinet. “Stay as long as you need.”
Sixty days under my brother’s watchful thumb? Uh, I don’t think so.
“I was thinking a week.”
Tops.
The less time I’m tossing my guts in his toilet, the better.
“One week to find a new place?” He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind, and you know what? Maybe I have. “Not going to happen, but dream big.”
“What room do you want me in?” I ask, though I’ve already dumped my stuff in the blue bedroom at the end of the hallway upstairs—the only guest room with its own bathroom. Tripp’s house is gorgeous, but it’s nowhere near the McMansion Buzz’s house is, with fewer rooms and less privacy.
Where Buzz is flashy, Tripp is more modest.
He feeds me rice and chicken, the pair of us worn out from our days, neither of us prying for information from the other. Yes, I want to hear about his new girlfriend, and yes, I want all the gossip about the wives of his football teammates.
But I’d rather take myself upstairs, kick off my shoes, and face-plant on the bed. Possibly take a steaming shower to be alone with my thoughts.
And when I’m able to start the water and step into the cream tiled shower stall, I blink up at the ceiling, letting the day sink down the drain. My forehead hits the cold wall, and I let out a breath.
What the hell am I going to do?
Two
Mateo
The last time I saw True Wallace, she was sliding out of the hotel bed the night of her brother’s wedding—sneaking out the door in the early morning light, shoes in hand, cringing when her hip hit the desk but not looking back.
She thought I was sleeping.
Not exactly something to brag about, but definitely something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
Not a day has gone by where I haven’t wondered what she’s doing, or crept on her social media because she’s been impossible to get ahold of.
Here I thought she and I were getting along great, but apparently I was wrong.
I pick up the glass in front of me on the bar and swirl it, mindful that my younger sister, Gloria—or Glory, as we all call her—is skeptically eyeballing me (as usual), eyes narrow while she watches my face.
“What?”
“What’s wrong?”
Damn, she knows me too well. All my sisters do, all six of them, probably because they outnumbered me growing up and escaping them was impossible. Especially since a few of us shared a room.
Seven kids in a three-bedroom house? They weren’t about to let me have my own space—no way in hell.
I shrug a little in Gloria’s direction, wanting to spill the beans about my personal life. “Nada.” Nothing.