Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I’m used to people wanting to take my picture, because growing up with Landrey as a last name means that you have all eyes on you since the day you’re born, but what I’m not okay with is catching a frat bro trying to take stealthy pics of me while an innocent girl squeezes my dick through the front of my pants.
Then I overheard him calling her a slut.
The prick.
I wasn’t actually going to cut his throat.
Just wanted to suggest that I could.
My dad always said that I was born ready to befriend the whole world. I don’t get in fights. I don’t have a violent bone in my body.
But I couldn’t let that guy sell those pictures.
I’ve already screwed shit up for my brother and my parents enough, so ruining a random girl’s life isn’t on the menu.
One photo with Tate Landrey would definitely be enough to get guys calling her a slut or gold-digger for the rest of college, and no one deserves that.
Not everyone can tank negative attention like I can.
My name is Tate Landrey, and yes, fucking sue me, I want people to talk to me.
Like me.
Touch me.
Even when it causes me to fuck up my life.
I push open the doors to the backyard and head outside.
The yard is huge. Lined with tall trees and rose shrubs. A stone path leads out to the pool, and other than a few guys playing poker on the patio, it’s calmer out here than it was inside. This whole house looks like something out of a movie set from a period drama in England, and the giant yard is no different.
I loop around the edge of the house and avoid any sideways glances from people on the patio.
I get to the side where it’s just rose bushes and rows of thick green hedges, and I’m finally alone.
I lean against the wall on the side of the house and breathe deep, wincing at the pain on my palm.
The leaves on the stone walkway nearby rustle in the breeze.
And I think of home.
The city.
Football season is starting up, and I’m not playing for the first time.
A deep flood of bitter disappointment surges through me.
Everything I’ve ever known is so far away… so how am I already fucking up my life here, too?
My whisper reaches no one, harsh and broken. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
I turn fast and slam my bloodied fist into the stone wall.
My knuckles scream with pain, and when I feel a fat, wet tear break off from the corner of my eye, I reach back and throw the next punch against the wall harder.
Stop it.
Just fucking stop.
I know I’m right on the edge of breaking my own knuckles.
I clutch my fist hard again under the throbbing pain, feeling the slashes on my palm sear with heat as I hit the wall again.
It’s only been hours since I left the city. I could have said no, when my brother suggested coming here, because I’m nineteen and for some arbitrary reason that means I’m well into being an independent adult. But… I knew Luke was right.
I had to leave.
To start over.
I turn and lean the side of my body against the cool wall, holding my fucked-up hand against my body like it’s a bird with a broken wing.
It hurts so much.
I hiss as I move the paper towels on my hand, which are now bloomed with more red than white. I didn’t grab enough of them for how bad the cut on my palm is.
My stomach plummets when I see movement nearby.
I hear footsteps on the gravel, coming around the corner of the house.
And then he appears again.
The last fucking person on Earth I want to see.
Roman Petrov, whoever the fuck he is, followed me out here.
I don’t usually feel that short being five foot ten, but… when I was against his body, I did.
“Don’t run,” Roman says in a low tone.
I glance to one side.
There’s a gap between two rose bushes at the side of the yard. I could exit quickly if I needed to. Get out around the side of the house and take off onto the street.
He steps into the low light of the lantern on the side of the house. He’s carrying something in his hands.
Out here, I catch more glimpses of thick-lined tattoos from beneath his sleeves.
He’s deeply fucking handsome, without question.
Even though his chiseled face seems to be set in a permanent smoldering scowl, his jawline and prominent Adam’s apple make him look like a statue of a young god.
His brown hair is freshly cut, short above his ears but with more length on the top. His lips are plush and ruddy, and I’d tell him he looks like a great kisser if I wasn’t a little bit afraid of him.
“Looking for a round two?” I toss back at him.