Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
With as loud as it was, she could stand there all day watching those abs ripple in tune with the music and he’d never know.
That was dangerous for him. Not because she was watching, but because he was unaware she only stood a couple feet away from him and could’ve killed him easily before he could react.
She kicked his boot with hers, causing a chain reaction of him jerking, a loud clunk, an even louder “Fuck!” and Trip scrambling from under the sink, wielding a plumber’s wrench like a club.
His brown eyes widened when he saw her, and he quickly climbed to his feet.
Fuck, he was tall. A lot taller than when he was fifteen. And he hadn’t been small then. At least to an eleven-year-old Stella.
“What’re you doin’ here?” he asked as he rubbed at a red spot on his forehead.
She ignored his question while she let her gaze roam his bare upper body. The distinct muscles, his black and gray inked sleeve that went all the way up his right arm and over his pec, his broad shoulders. Tats on both of his sides along his ribs. The beard. The trail of dark hair from his navel and led to the unknown.
The hair on his head...
His light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She hadn’t realized it was that long since he’d been wearing a hat at the bar and must have hidden the length underneath. It wasn’t super long but enough to be able to tie it back. It might hit his shoulders if she pulled the band from his hair and let it loose.
As tempting as it was, she wasn’t going to do that.
She cleared her throat. “Working up a sweat?”
Still gripping the adjustable wrench, he wiped away the beads on his brow with his forearm. However, that didn’t erase the frown he wore as he turned down the music from the old portable stereo on a shelf above the sink. At least now she could hear herself think.
“No fuckin’ air in here, yet.”
Yet. Which meant there would be eventually.
“Going to spoil your future brothers with all these modern technologies, like running water, electricity and cold beer.”
He put the wrench down next to the sink and then jerked his chin to somewhere behind her. “Hand me my shirt.”
She peered over her shoulder at where his discarded cut and T-shirt laid, then turned back to him. “Why? Kinda like what I’m seeing.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she murmured. She probably shouldn’t have admitted that, but it was too late to take it back now. “Bikers usually aren’t that built. They work on their beer guts, not their obliques.”
He sucked at his teeth for a second and let his gaze roam over her from top to toe. She couldn’t fault him for it. She’d done it to him and was still ogling him without any shame. It was only fair he returned the gesture.
“Had lots of time while in prison. Keepin’ the body healthy keeps the mind sane.”
She hadn’t heard that he’d done time. But then, she hadn’t heard shit about him since the day they all beat feet out of Manning Grove. Not until he walked into her bar and back into her life a few days ago.
She sighed, grabbed his tee and tossed it to him. He used it to wipe his face and chest, then threw it over his shoulder.
“Not going to put it on?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Do I need to?”
“I think you’re safe without it. For the most part, I can control myself around half naked men.”
She swore she heard him say, “Pity,” under his breath.
Huh. “What were you in for?”
“To learn a trade, apparently.”
Like most occupants of the federal, state or county system, he probably insisted he was innocent and was wrongly housed by the taxpayers. “Is that where you learned plumbing?”
“Among other things.”
When he reached up to jerk the band from his ponytail, Stella swore the whole Earth stopped spinning and everything went into slow motion. The way his abs clenched, the way his biceps bulged as he reached up and let his hair fall around his face, the way he raked his fingers through the damp strands before gathering them back up again and securing the black elastic tie around it.
Damn.
At eleven, and even before, she wanted to marry that boy. Now at thirty-one, her thoughts had nothing to do with wedding vows.
Nothing at all.
She bit her bottom lip and forced herself to remain leaning back against the counter, with her palms planted firmly on the edge. Otherwise, they might end up planted on his chest with her bottom lip between his teeth instead.
She shook herself mentally.
He was the last fucking thing she needed in her life.
The very last fucking thing.
She was done with “bad boys.” Her father had been one. And so had her husband. Bad boys were great to look at, great for fantasies, but hell to live with.