Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” he says, dropping his hand to his side. “You were practically an Olympian.”
“Ugh. Couldn’t you just have lied to me?”
He balks. “What do you mean?”
“You could’ve just said, ‘Absolutely.’ Or, ‘It happened so fast I don’t remember what you looked like.’” I sigh, nestling my head against the leaves. “But you had to take it too far. Now I know you’re lying.”
“But didn’t you just ask me why I couldn’t have just lied to you?”
“Never mind,” I say, groaning. “Guess I might as well introduce myself. I’m Gabrielle Solomon. It’s nice to meet you . . . sort of.”
He nods, wearing a confused, maybe even startled, look. A lock of tobacco-colored hair falls across his forehead.
The air is filled with the scent of his cologne. It’s spicy and woody with notes of oud, something I can pick out thanks to my job at a department store fragrance counter in college. A hint of citrus comes from nowhere, finishing the scent with a sweet kiss.
I pause, giving him space to introduce himself. But it becomes apparent rather quickly that I can wait all day. He’s not saying anything more.
My brows pull together. “A nod? That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“What do you mean?”
“Again, what do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Hello? Introduce yourself. Ask if I’m hurt?” I frown. “You know, you’re really botching an opportunity to be a hero.”
He smirks. “That would imply that I wanted to be one.”
It’s not just the smirk that liquefies my insides. It’s the smirk, combined with his confident and slightly detached tone, that obliterates my ability to respond.
I’ve had a penchant for the cocky, broody type since elementary school. Levi Kellan sat beside me in class. He rarely looked my way and always had his face stuck in a book. He was casually cool, even as a fifth grader. I was in love.
Levi broke my heart in eighth grade by telling my best friend he was unavailable when she asked if he liked me. He didn’t say he wasn’t interested, nor did he have a girlfriend. He was just mysteriously unavailable.
That should’ve been it for me. The confusion—What does ‘unavailable’ even mean?—should’ve been a turnoff. Instead, I still dream about self-assured men who are just out of reach. I’m drawn to the ones who keep a part of themselves locked away. They’re a treasure chest of surprises.
I gaze up at my neighbor and blush. I bet he’s full of surprises.
He reaches toward me. I brace for his hand to contact my skin. The anticipation alone nearly lifts me off the flowers to brush against his body quicker. But instead of offering me his palm or checking me for injuries, he grabs the edge of the broken railing and pulls.
Oof.
The piece of wood falls into his grasp with little effort.
“It looks like this whole thing needs to be replaced,” he says, inspecting the plank and pointedly ignoring my barely covered body beneath him. “This is rotted.”
I release the air in my lungs, annoyed. “It’s on my list.”
“List of what?”
“Things to fix.” I move my hip off a sharp stalk. “I need to paint and to fix the kitchen drain. Stop the toilet upstairs from running. The doorbell sounds like a wounded animal. And now the railing is trash.”
“Didn’t your home inspection point all of this out?”
“I’m sure it would’ve.”
His brows shoot to the sky. “‘Would’ve’?”
“I didn’t have one.”
“You bought a house without having it inspected?” He shifts his weight. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Careful. This is starting to sound an awful lot like hero language. Just saying.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Look, I’m starting to itch,” I say, scratching my shoulder. “So either lend a hand like the gentleman you haven’t proven yourself to be or return to your truck and don’t watch my Olympic-worthy routine getting out of here.”
He tosses the wood onto the porch. “You have a plan, then?”
“My plan to get out of here?”
“No, your plan to fix the railing.” He huffs a breath, exasperation thick in his tone. “Yes, your plan to get out of the bush.”
I narrow my eyes at him before glancing at my surroundings.
The lilacs must be as old as the house because flowers don’t grow this thick overnight. I’m tucked so deeply into the center of the plants that I don’t think he—whatever his name is—would’ve seen me if he hadn’t watched me fall.
Except he did see me, and now I need to get out of here with my dignity intact.
What’s left of it, anyway.
“I’m going to”—I have no clue—“just climb out next to the house.”
I bring my gaze back to his. His eyes steal my breath.
Gold rings hug the irises, blending into a mossy-green hue. The green deepens until it shifts into a chocolate-brown color that lines the outer edge. They’re beautiful.
“I need to get back to my truck,” he says. “But I also need to know you got out of there without breaking your damn neck.”