Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
I force myself not to scratch my arms. “I need to tell you something first. What happened, what this was about.” I gesture to the attic.
“Okay, but not here.” He’s pushing me around to face the attic stairs. “I’ll even let you lead the way.”
He’ll let me. His firm hands on my biceps are sending signals straight to my cock. “First you want my shirt off, now you want to stare at my ass,” I say while clearing my throat. “It’s almost like you like me.”
“I’d like you more if you weren’t inhaling this shit.”
I’m trying not to think about what the dust is actually doing to my body. Another tickle irritates my windpipe, and my eyes feel like dry cotton balls.
I’m quick about descending the creaky attic ladder. When Farrow drops down, I face him in the hall. “Where are our kids?”
Back when Charlie texted to meet in the attic, I’d left both Cassidy and Ripley with Farrow. So if he’s here, then who has them?
“Downstairs,” Farrow says vaguely.
“Wow, those are some very specific coordinates.”
He’s not amused because I’m also hacking up a lung into my elbow. “They’re with Thatcher. He can take care of them for five minutes. You’re sniffling—”
“Barely.”
“Okay, smartass. You know the coordinates to the bathroom? Or do I need to carry you there?”
I flip him off with two hands.
His smile appears, and it untenses my muscles.
“I’ll lead the way,” I rasp out, but Farrow walks beside me, just to piss me off, maybe. I don’t know right now, considering he’s in doctor-mode and just trying to help me. And my throat is on fire. “Whatever hay fever is, it’s not that bad.”
That’s what he called my affliction upstairs in the attic. I don’t have Web MD popped up on my phone, so I have no clue how serious it is, but if it’s solved by a shower, then I’m not losing sleep over it.
“It’s bad enough,” Farrow says casually like protecting my health is easily his number one priority.
“I could probably finish unloading the cases of water,” I tell him. “And watch our kids. And—”
“Whatever other detours you’re thinking about, wolf scout, you can shelve them.”
“You would’ve liked the one that involved your cock.”
He laughs once, his eyes flitting to me. “That’s cute you think you could take me without choking right now.”
I grind my teeth to force down a smile. “Who said I would’ve put you in my mouth?”
Farrow shakes his head, his lips stretching into a wider smile. “You’re something else.”
“Immortal, I know.” I stop mid-hallway to cough into my bicep. “Fuck.”
Farrow drops his trauma bag and digs out a Benadryl. “Here.” He hands me a couple pills and a water bottle.
I wash them down with a large gulp. Our eyes stay latched for a long beat. He’s studying me in a way that makes me feel okay to be vulnerable. Reminding me that it’s easiest with him.
It always has been.
How he stands like he’s a pillar at my side, a person I can lean on, it draws me in for a second. He’s sort of hot. Barely hot. I’m doing my best not to look that attracted to my husband. Mostly because it’s still taking my mind off the itch crawling along my back.
“I will carry you,” Farrow warns.
“Or I could carry you,” I fling back.
“Stop flirting with me and move.”
I grimace. “I wasn’t flirting.”
He laughs into the biggest, most aggravating smile alive.
“I wasn’t,” I profess, walking away from him. “I’d rather die from hay fever than flirt with you right now.” His know-it-all grin sees new horizons, expanding farther and farther.
I groan all the way to our bedroom. Fuck, my eyes. They’re burning. I rub at them. “It’s going to be the quickest shower in the world,” I tell him. “Time me if you need to.”
His brows slowly rise, his smile vanishing while inspecting me. “Do not need to do that.”
“Awesome,” I cough out, then push open the bedroom door and immediately step on a toy truck on the floor. My ankle almost twists, and I let out a long curse before kicking the truck out of the way.
“Shit,” Farrow mutters, his concern doubling, no, tripling on me.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. Foot throbs. Eyes puffy. Throat on fire. Am I dying?
“You can barely open your eyes,” Farrow refutes. He’s already passing the bassinet, and I jog into the small en-suite bathroom. Beating him there, mostly so I can wash my eyes out in the sink. Less out of pride.
Foam letters are stuck to the bathtub’s tiled walls, and rubber duckies are on the ledge. Farrow flings open the curtain and starts the shower.
After scooping handfuls of water at my eyes, I stare at myself in the mirror. Shiiit. My eyes are as swollen as they feel.
“Get in the shower,” Farrow urges. “I’ll get you some eyedrops.”