Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 45332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45332 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
On trembling legs, she hurries to exit the apartment, throwing the house key on the table. It clanks and skids before coming to a stop. “A bit much?” I ask, raising a brow.
“We need to find her, Vance.” Tristan’s pulse jumps in his throat, fists clenched against his thighs
“There aren’t many places she can be, we weren’t gone long, and she doesn’t know many people here.”
“The hotel–where you met her.” Tristan rushes past me.
“You really think she would come back here?” Tristan asks after we have no luck at the hotel.
Approaching the door of Josh’s apartment, I lift a shoulder. “He left, so she can be alone here until he returns. It makes sense. You said she didn’t take any of the things you bought her, so she’s going to need clothes.” I take a deep breath, because if she’s not here, I’m out of ideas, and she’s not answering our calls.
I rap my knuckles on the wood, and when no one answers after about thirty seconds, Tristan plasters himself against it, smashing his ear against the wood, listening. “I hear movement in there.”
When I knock again, he frowns at me. The sound must be really fucking loud with his ear still pressed there.
“Someone’s coming,” he announces, pushing himself back.
The door swings open, and relief washes through me. Tristan doesn’t even give Poppy a chance to speak before he lets himself inside, snatching her up and pinning her to his chest.
“Where did you go?” His words sound like a plea, clutching onto her as she wriggles to get free from him. Her skin is blotchy, and her eyes are red-rimmed as though she’s been crying.
Looking like someone just stole from his sweet jar, Tristan reluctantly releases her, running a hand down his face. Wearing a tee and shorts, she saunters down the hallway and into a room before returning with one of my T-shirts, throwing it at me.
“I was going to wash them and put them in the mail,” she tells me, not meeting my eyes.
I blow out a frustrated breath, throwing the shirt onto the ground noticing there’s a pair of shorts with it too. “I don’t give a shit about the clothes, Angel.”
“I can’t do this.” She circles her finger, gesturing to us. “It’s too hard.”
My chest deflates, caving in on itself. Not many women can handle us, can do what we do, but it felt like she was ours, made for us. Not once did it feel wrong or like she didn’t want us.
“Don’t say that.” Tristan speaks so quietly, I’m not sure she heard him until her brow puckers, and she swipes a stray tear from her eye.
“We’re sorry about Miranda,” he continues. “We had no fucking clue she stole a key.”
“She stole your key?” There’s anger in her tone. “That woman…” She shudders. “I’m not like those women.”
“We know.” I move toward her, but she steps back. “We don’t want you to be like her.”
“Come home, Poppy. Please,” Tristan implores her.
Shaking her head, she throws her hands up then lets them crash against her sides, walking barefoot into the room she disappeared into moments before.
We both follow her trail, finding her in a bedroom, Tristan follows her inside but I linger at the threshold giving her some space.
There’s a weird stirring in my gut, watching her load clothes into a suitcase laid out on a queen bed. “Are you packing to come home?” Tristan asks hopefully, and I wish I had his optimism.
“It’s not my home, Tristan. And if I did go with you, when you’re done with me in a few weeks, I’ll be in a worse situation than I am now.” She looks around the room before approaching a dresser, pulling open a drawer, and gathering underwear, dropping a few pairs on her way back to the suitcase.
Like a dragon finding gold, Tristan snatches up the fallen pairs and pockets them. “Why the hell would we be done with you in a few weeks?” he asks, confusion twisting his features.
Her deep inhalation is audible as she stops packing to look at him. “I heard you talking this morning about a contract and it only having been a few weeks.” There’s anger laced with the pain in her tone. “Your redhead woman told me you usually have three-month contracts.” Nostrils flaring, she angrily presses the heels of her palms against the tears welling in her eyes.
He looks at her, dumbfounded. Before she can turn away from him, he grasps her face, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks to capture her leaking tears.
“Don’t Tristan.” Clearly she’s upset, but a tiny speck of hope starts to grow within me when she doesn’t pull away from him “I can’t do this with you. It means more to me, is more to me than just sex, and it would break me to be replaced in a few weeks or months.”