Only for the Weekend Read Online Riley Hart

Categories Genre: M-M Romance, Romance Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

Only for the Weekend

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Riley Hart

Language:
English
Book Information:

Sam
Nothing in my life is really mine. I take care of my mama, work three jobs, I’m there when anyone needs me. Something about the beautiful, lonely man on my mail route interests me. He’s different in my world, where everything’s the same. I think he hates me, but that doesn’t stop me from hand-delivering every package and trying to find ways to make him smile.
Then Emerson makes me an offer: he’ll pay me to spend the weekends with him, losing ourselves in each other’s bodies, no feelings or pasts involved.
Friday through Sunday become mine, the one thing I do for me. Soon it’s not just the weekends I want, but Emerson. He’s got secrets, though, and won’t let me in.
Emerson
I landed in the small town of Ryland, hoping to disappear. Finding your boyfriend’s body and being accused of his murder will do that to a guy. The deal with Sam is supposed to be strictly physical, but it doesn’t take long for the adorable, sweet man to get under my skin.
I look forward to his corny jokes, get addicted to the feel of his body against mine. He’s got the biggest heart I’ve ever seen, and with each day, each conversation we have, every laugh we share, Sam brings me back to life.
There’s a million reasons I should stay away: I’m broken, fifteen years older, too sad, too angry, and can’t let my past get out. But Sam makes me want to fight for my happiness if the reward is him. Because having Sam only for the weekend will never be enough.
Only for the Weekend is a grumpy/sunshine, hurt/comfort, age-gap romance with two scarred characters who find comfort in each other. There are themes of alcoholism involving a side character.
Books by Author:

Riley Hart



CHAPTER ONE

Emerson

Twenty-two stab wounds.

Crime of passion.

Why, Bent? Why did you kill me?

I shot up in bed, sweat running down my temples, making its way into my rapidly blinking eyes. My chest hurt, sharp pain that was both anxiety and a constant ache that never truly went away. It grew in moments like this, when I couldn’t catch my breath, no matter how much air I fought to suck into my lungs.

The nightmare was always the same.

One minute I was at the upscale bar in Manhattan, surrounded by people, all of them wanting something from me. It was okay, though, because I wanted something from them too. That was the nature of the business, and it had made me very, very rich.

I’d laughed at something Curtis Dryer had said. In my nightmare, I never heard what it was, but I knew it wasn’t funny. If this night went well, I would gain a very wealthy client looking to invest a whole lot of money, and I loved that, loved how it made me feel worthy and important. Like there was something I did well.

Like I mattered.

I’d blinked, and the next moment I was in my brownstone. A metallic scent filled the air, nearly suffocating me. Something warm and thick ran down my arms and hands, dripping to the floor. I looked down and saw the red puddle at my feet first, then the drips as they fell from my fingertips, expanding the pool of blood beneath me.

It was all I could see then, the blood on my hands, on the floor, flooding my vision. My heart thudded so intensely, I didn’t know how it didn’t burst, just explode in my chest, taking me right along with it.

“Why, Bent? Why did you kill me?” played over and over in my head.

I stumbled from the bed, toe catching on the sheet. I caught myself before I fell, rushed to the bathroom, just making it to the toilet before emptying my stomach inside. My gut ached as I vomited, my ass planted on the cool, tiled floor. When there was nothing left in me, I flushed, stood, rinsed my mouth, brushed my teeth, then scrubbed my hands raw.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. The process was the same every time, though I knew I would never get them clean. I’d forever have blood on my hands, and it didn’t matter that there was nothing I could’ve done to save Daniel.

I didn’t know what made me choose North Carolina. Once everything had gone down in Manhattan, the second the ink was dry on the sale of my portion of the private equity firm I’d spent my life working for, I’d loaded up clothes and a few other things in my car, instructed my lawyer and friend, Charles, to sell the rest, and had just driven.

No plan, just knew I had to get out. I’d driven down to Florida, but it was fucking Florida, so no chance of me staying there. I’d spent some time in Georgia, Louisiana, South Carolina, and Tennessee, not knowing what I was looking for, other than a place I could disappear.

I’d landed in Ryland, about an hour and a half from Charlotte, but in reality, it was like a whole different planet from the bigger city. I couldn’t say what made me stay. Maybe I’d just been tired of driving. Maybe something about it looked as lonely as I felt.

I’d bought a house outside of town, down a long road I’d graveled myself, that no one except the mailman or a food delivery driver ever made it down. My BMW was covered in a layer of dust and green pollen, something I would have never allowed to happen in Manhattan, but here it didn’t matter because I didn’t matter.

I created my own world on my property. I got a couple of horses even though I didn’t have anyone to ride with. A few goats, chickens, and hens. Even added a few cows to the mix. I grew up on a farm, one a whole lot bigger than this one. Knew the benefits in having a routine, something I was responsible for—if I didn’t feed them, they didn’t eat—and I knew from the moment I arrived in Ryland how important that would be for me.

Other than the occasional rumor, strange looks, and manufactured hellos when I went into town, I’d been able to spend the last year losing myself here.

It was too early to take care of the animals, but I knew I wouldn’t get any more sleep tonight. I was too shaken, too afraid that my nightmare would start over again. Without much else to do, I went for a jog, down the lonely gravel road and out to the quiet one that led to town.

The morning was surprisingly chilly for May. We’d gotten a storm the night before, the ground still wet. The scent of rain clung to the air, rose up from the asphalt as my feet slapped against the road. The dark swallowed me up, ate me whole. When I took one of the sharp turns, it occurred to me that it would be hard for a car to see me with the dark clothes I was wearing.


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