Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 129027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
And that works for me. I’m a single-minded person who likes it inside the cozy box because I’ve learned over the years that routines help me not freak out with crippling anxiety. I’m much better when I know where I’m going and what my goals are and how I’m going to achieve them.
But that’s not to say that sometime my parents’ particular inside-the-box plans for me haven’t chaffed like a straight-jacket. I finally feel strong enough to chart my own path. And if my path doesn’t deviate much from their plans—at least if you’re just looking at it from the outside—well that’s just how I manage my family. How I stay in it but not of it at the same time.
But right when there’s a light at the end of the tunnel—I’m graduating with my Ph.D. next year and marrying Drew in two months at the end of the semester to secure the transfer of my inheritance—I manage to catch a goddamned stalker.
It’s not freaking fair. I’ve been working toward my freedom for so long. Not to mention how mortifying it is that I only get my inheritance once I get married. It’s medieval.
Thank god Drew’s so chill about everything. Or, well, thank the universe since I don’t believe in god anymore. Not that I dare drop that bombshell on my parents. Not until my inheritance is nice and secure in my bank account and they can’t hold me hostage with it anymore, thank you very much.
The loud shower spray in the bathroom shuts off. Shit. I yank my dress off over my head and swap it with a shirt from the suitcase, then wriggle out of my tights.
I’ve barely gotten my pajama pants on when Isaak pushes the door open. He’s shirtless, in just his boxers, scrubbing his wet hair with a towel. God, he’s hairy everywhere. His chest looks like a blond fur mat.
I’m about to snap at him for not giving me a warning, but then I catch sight of his rock-hard abs, cut like they’re carved from marble. And the trail of hair that starts around his belly button, leading down to—
“Shut your mouth, Red, you’ll catch a fly.”
My eyes shoot up to his face, where he’s smirking at me, very self-satisfied. He came out like this, all but naked, on purpose. To rile me up. Or because he’s got an ego the size of Texas and is the kind of gym rat who keeps abs like that because he likes it when women look.
A man’s got needs.
“You’re insufferable,” I bite out and shove my suitcase closed even though I know I’ll be bothered by the disorder inside all night. I grab the water bottle from the floor and go sit down on the chair. I vehemently unzip my bathroom bag and pull out my medications. One by one, I screw off the tops, shake pills into my hand, and down them.
“Jesus, Red,” Isaak says after I’ve finished and put the bag down. “You swallowing a whole medicine cabinet over there?”
I glare his way. “Please. Go ahead. Shame me for my medical conditions.”
He frowns. “What medical conditions?”
I zip the bag tight and stow it in the bottom compartment of the nightstand. “None of your business.”
“Actually, Red, it is my business. I need to know what’s happening if you start having a seizure on me or something.”
I heave out a big breath. “I’m not epileptic. It’s nothing like that.” I glare his way. “Could you put on a shirt?”
He grins at me. “Difficulty concentrating?”
“Do I need to remind you that I’m an engaged woman?”
“I thought you had an understanding.”
“Not so I can sleep with my meathead of a bodyguard.”
“Hey, hey,” he raises his hands. “I’m not like Moira’s personal protection officer. I know how to keep my hands off the merchandise. I’m not the one eyeing you like I want to devour you.”
I shoot up from where I’m sitting. “I am not eyeing you like I want to—”
He chuckles, and I realize he’s trying to wind me up again. “Plus, you’re barely legal, Red.”
“You are such a bastard.” I grab a pillow and fling it at him with all the force of my frustration. “And I’m twenty-two, not eighteen.”
He easily deflects the pillow, which is even more infuriating.
“You were saying,” he says after a chuckle. “What are the pills for?”
I heave out another breath, trying to calm myself down. “Anxiety,” I finally seethe out through my teeth. “Not that being around you helps because you’re infuriating.”
“I make you anxious?” he asks, surprised.
I suck in another breath and let it out. “Not really. You just piss me off. It’s everything else.” I wave my hands out in generalization. “I’m an anxious person.”
“Are those benzos then?” he asks, suddenly far too alert. Like he’s actually concerned. I don’t like it. It’s better when he’s the simpleton I’ve pinned him as. “I had some buddies hooked on those.”