Co-WRECKER by Meghan Quinn

Author:Meghan Quinn [Quinn, Meghan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC
Published: 2017-03-22T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

ANDREW

Ding, ding, ding, ding.

I sit ram-rod straight in bed, one hand hitting the wall next to me as I look around. Blind as a bat, I stumble while reaching for my glasses as the incessant dinging keeps sounding off.

“What the fuck?” I mumble groan, finally putting my glasses on.

I press the home button on my phone and read the time. Seven thirty. Rubbing my face, I try to understand what’s happening.

Ding, ding, ding.

“Christ.” I whip the covers off me and place my feet on the cold hardwood floor. Even in the summer, these floors get cold. Note to self: get slippers for winter. Reaching into my dresser, which is right next to my bed, I snag a pair of shorts and throw them on over my boxer briefs.

I take a second to gather myself and then look around. Where is that sound coming from? When I step out of my room, the sound grows stronger. The doorbell.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Moving down the creaky stairs, I make promises to myself. “If this is a solicitor, I swear I’m going to do it. Man or woman, I’m punting the fuck out of their crotch.”

Cocking my foot back, ready for the unleashing of one epic booting to the sex-junk, I unlock the deadbolt and swing the door open to find Sadie standing on the other side, finger perched at the doorbell, coffee and a pastry box in the other hand, and a wicked smile on her face. I let out a long, tortured breath and bow my head.

And here I was about to cunt-punt her to the next street over.

“Morning, sunshine.” What the hell is with the cheery attitude? Did Mary Poppins crawl up her ass in the middle of the night and offer her a spoonful of sugar?

I rub my eyebrow with my palm, skewing my glasses for a second and ask, “Uh, what are you doing here?”

“I brought you breakfast. Can I come in?”

“Sure, yeah.” I stumble trying to open the screen door and hold it wide for her as she walks in, giving me a once-over before stepping in.

Once inside, she turns to me and asks, “Shall we eat in your room or in the dining room?”

I glance over at the makeshift dining room, which is made up of a beer pong table and two fold-out chairs—I don’t live with the most decorative girls—and think my room has got to be a better option.

“Let’s go to my room. Should I grab napkins and plates?”

“Probably. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

We part ways, her going to the left, me going to the right, but that doesn’t stop me from checking her out as she starts her way up my stairs. She’s wearing denim shorts that ride high enough to make my mouth water, brown sandals, and a white lace tank top with just enough of a neckline to remind me what she has hidden underneath. No one should look that good this early in the morning, especially when visiting with pastry delights.

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