Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134830 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Brrrrrrrrrr-RRRRRRRR!
Wait… that’s not in my head. That’s out front.
Grumpily, I stumble to the front door and peer outside. Through the blinding, piercing light, I’m shocked to not see a lumberjack competition or a World War II reenactment going on in my front yard. Instead, there is a loud, rumbling, growling motorcycle at the curb, revving its engine with each savage twist of the throttle. And though the rider’s wearing a helmet, I’d know those arms anywhere.
What the fuck is Kyle doing here so early, and why is he being so damn loud?
Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing and why he’s being so loud. Basically, I fucked around, and now I’m finding out.
Except that I’m not the one who does the finding out, and Kyle needs to learn that lesson. Gritting my teeth, I bust through my screen door, stomping toward him. If I weren’t hungover, I’d probably try to come up with something snappy to say. But my brain isn’t in prime form at the moment, so all I come up with is screeching at him, “Noooooo! Make it stop!” as I point at his bike with one hand and hold my head with the other.
He pulls his helmet off, revealing a one-sided grin of triumph. “What?” he yells, cupping his hand at his ear, his other hand going back to the throttle. “Did you say, louder? Yeah, it’ll go louder.” He revs the engine, making me flinch and curl into myself protectively.
Cracking one eye, I glare at him as if he’s the devil himself. And what does Mr. Loud and Annoying do? He laughs. If he wants to be childish, so can I. I stomp closer, right next to him before reaching to the middle of his handlebars and twisting the keys, switching the engine off myself and yanking the keys out of the slot.
“Hey!” he shouts. “Hands off!”
Guys are like that, I’ve learned. They’ll lose their shit if you dare to touch any of their stuff. But using your favorite cast-iron skillet to make pizza rolls? You can’t get mad about that, or else you’re being a bitch.
And yes, that actually happened to me once and I kicked that boyfriend out of my kitchen, house, and life—in that order—before those little snacks could pop and start leaking their tomatoey filling onto my good pan. I finished that particular incident by throwing barely-thawed pizza rolls, one by one, at the raging, now ex-boyfriend. Got him in the forehead with two before he left, calling me a ‘psycho’ as he peeled out of my driveway. Little did he know, a true psycho would’ve hit him with the frying pan, not the pizza rolls, so he got off easy.
Kyle’s voice is like a needle piercing my eardrum, and I slap my hand over his mouth, pressing hard. “Be quiet. Please,” I beg, my own voice barely above a whisper. And that’s still too loud.
He pulls his head back and twists away from my hand, grinning widely as he taunts, “Feeling extra-good this morning, are we?”
I shoot him a ‘that’s a stupid question’ look, and he grins even more, all too aware that even when he’s not saying anything, he’s still digging sharp skewers into my brain with nothing more than that blinding-white, cocky smile in the middle of his tanned, too-pretty face.
“What if I told you I know a top-secret, sure-fire cure-all for hangovers?” Kyle teases, lowering his voice by half but still looking infuriatingly arrogant. But the carrot he’s dangling is dangerous… and tempting, if only because I feel like there’s an echo in my head when I talk, and the sound of the bike’s engine is still vibrating in my ears.
“If you say ‘my dick’, I will cut it off and throw it in my handy-dandy food chopper,” I vow, making a slamming motion like I’m lowering the lever on the kitchen tool I use every morning for my onions and peppers. He silently laughs like that’s a joke, but I’m dead-serious and absolutely, one hundred percent, mean it.
“Damn, no need for all that. I was actually gonna say something helpful.” He looks like he’s second-guessing that kindness now.
Not sure I believe him, but desperate for relief, I skeptically ask, “What? Anything that’ll help.”
“Hot, fresh, greasy diner food. Best in the entire area.” He pats the seat behind him. “Hop on and I’ll show you.”
A bark of laughter escapes before I can stop myself, and the resulting pain has me hissing and glaring at him like it’s his fault for suggesting something so ridiculous. “Does that actually work for you? Like you tell women ‘hop on’ and they get on your bike?”
He shrugs, not answering, which is answer enough.
Truthfully, I’m not surprised. A guy like Kyle probably can give some women a jerk of his chin in invitation, and they’d be hurrying over, throwing a leg over his bike and then later, over him for a different type of ride. But that’s not me. “Fuck you.”