Red Line Ruin (LOS ANGELES FIREBIRDS HOCKEY #1) by Mariah Wolfe EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Mariah Wolfe
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
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- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
RENEE
Is it still melodramatic to say it’s “the worst day of your life” if it’s true?
Yes?
Okay, fine. Then it’s not the worst day of my life.
But it still sucks.
I’ve got a heavy-ass box in my hand with about a jillion of them still left to
haul up from the moving truck, I’m sweating like a pig despite the Arcticlevel A/C in this gaudy condo complex, and my phone won’t stop buzzing
in my back pocket.
Again. And again. And again.
I know who’s calling—the same people who’ve been calling nonstop for the
last two weeks—which is why I’m not answering.
I’ve got enough drama in my life. I don’t need them to bring more of it.
I drop the box with a thump in the open foyer of Unit PH03 and breathe a
sigh of relief. Yes, PH does stand for “Penthouse,” and no, I extremely
cannot afford it.
Matter of fact, I don’t think I can even afford to set so much as a pinky toe
in this place. The sign out in front of the building reads THE PALAIS in a
trendy sans serif font etched in sandstone. I’ve refused to say the name out
loud in case I butcher it and reveal myself as the ultimate peasant who does
not belong here. I think they’re onto me already, though—the concierge
looked at me like I was lower than pond scum when I schlepped the first
load of my stuff into the freight elevator.
The penthouse in question belongs to my best friend Sutton. That’s Sutton,
as in Sutton Medina, as in famous Hollywood starlet Sutton Medina, who is
currently sipping champagne on a private plane somewhere between here
and Paris, where she’s going to spend the next three months filming the
Oscar-baitiest movie of all time.
“It’s pretentious trash, but it’s my kind of pretentious trash,” she’d
explained when she first pitched this whole crazy house-sitting idea to me a
week ago. “Lots of slow motion shots of me, like, sipping tea and
gallivanting under the Eiffel Tower in sundresses and stuff.”
“What a challenging life you lead,” I’d laughed. “How ever will you
survive?”
“I’m not saying I’m a martyr, but I’m not not saying it, either.”
I’m the real martyr in this situation, though. The movie studio has people
tending to Sutton’s every whim—but here I am, transporting a decade’s
worth of stuff out of the crummy apartment I used to share with He-WhoMust-Not-Be-Named… and without so much as a single mover to help.
I sigh and pull the rag from my back pocket to mop the sweat off my
forehead. I always sweat way too much, whereas Sutton just glistens. I
guess that’s why she’s the movie star and I’m not.
As I lean against the wall, I hear a noise from further down the corridor. I
open my eyes to see the door to Unit PH01 open. A man steps out.
My immediate first thought is, Maybe that’s why he’s the movie star and
I’m not.
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