Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
If this dream has to end, let me sleep.
Just a little while longer.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Bee? Phone?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Damn phone.
I roll over with a groan, cracking one very tired eye open.
It’s probably mine and it could be important, even if my entire psyche rebels against getting out of this cozy nest of blankets and the warm beast at my side.
I reluctantly swing my legs over the bed and start shuffling through the pile of clothes on the floor, looking for my phone.
No dice.
Where is it if it’s not with my stuff—
Oh. Right.
Brock stole my phone earlier when we were storming the house in a flurry of kisses, teasing me about demanding all my attention.
His shorts move against the floor as my phone buzzes, which makes me laugh.
I reach into the large pocket that’s glowing and rescue my phone.
VANESSA appears on the screen.
Huh?
Oops. This isn’t my phone.
But before I can put it down, her message scrolls across the screen.
Brock, thank you so SO much. For everything. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Wish you were here in NY.
Leave it to a goddamn bazillionaire not to lock his screen, and who the hell is this Vanessa?
Before I can put it down and check my nosiness, another message pops up.
I hope you’re doing okay. Miss you. I promise to send more pics soon.
Pics?
Heart, meet hammer.
I’m seeing so much red I start to choke.
I’m tempted to respond, Hi, Vanessa. Piper here, the woman who just slept with him last night and holy hell it was good. Mind telling me what you want?
Yeah, no.
I know. I shouldn’t have read his messages.
I shouldn’t have created a self-fulfilling prophecy last night by dwelling on when this would end.
Of course it’s now.
And of course it’s with a massive screaming heartfuck.
I angrily scoop my clothes off the floor, stuff myself into them, and walk out of the mansion.
Because I’m pretty far up a private road, a half mile away is the closest my Uber can get.
At least the brisk walk burns off the fury knifing through me, texting Maisy as I go.
Checking in. I’m about to stop by the house. Any reason I haven’t heard from you in almost twenty-four hours?
That’s another worry.
She hasn’t replied by the time I’m climbing in the car, but it’s so early and barely much later in her time zone.
There’s no answer by the time my ride drops me off. Our little house doesn’t feel like home now that I’m alone.
Falling down alone in my childhood twin bed doesn’t make it any easier to sleep after curling up to Mr. Player Backstabberston for a week.
Does Vanessa curl up with him too?
What does she even look like? A supermodel?
How long have they been—
No.
I don’t want to know, and I still smell like Brock.
Maybe that’s why I push my face into my pillow and scream until my lungs hurt.
Sometime after the most restless sleep of my life, I wake up late, find clean clothes, run a hot shower, and try to wash all the billionaire stink off.
I can’t work like this, so I try to pop a couple melatonin and go back to sleep.
I tell myself I’ll feel better by noon.
Yeah, even I don’t believe it.
After an hour of struggling to sleep, I move to the living room and start watching Law and Order reruns until my eyes hurt.
At least thinking about murder cases makes me feel slightly better about having my heart hacked up by a serial bastard.
The next morning, I’m slightly more functional, but that doesn’t mean better.
I turn my phone back on and ignore what looks like at least seven messages from the man I left behind. No time to read them now.
I walk into Sweeter Grind five minutes after they open. It’s empty except for one lonely guy in the back corner.
I wonder what his story is.
Is Vanessa texting his boyfriend too?
Did some woman who lit up his entire sky smash the stars like cheap ornaments?
No one sits alone in a coffee shop this early on a windy grey Saturday morning without a story.
I order a dark roast with heavy cream and find a seat against the back wall. Maisy’s ringtone blares from my phone so loud it scares me.
“Hello?”
“Hi, sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. Fyodor took me to the beach yesterday and we went to this cool Aztec museum. Easy extra credit for international studies!” she says proudly.
“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun. But if you’re out sightseeing, who’s with Dad?” I ask.
“Oh. Um, he started physical therapy yesterday. We stayed until he started, but you know how touchy he gets about that. He wouldn’t let me watch him struggle.”
“Is he eating normally?”
“Yep, pretty good appetite. Whatever they gave him cleared up the stomach problems he was having after the fall,” she tells me. “You shouldn’t worry so much, Pippa. He’s making the most of his time. He even has a private balcony in his room and jokes about being on vacation.”