Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“I’m pretty sure go away doesn’t sound like come in,” he says, grinning.
“No, but I knew what you meant.”
He shakes his head but goes back to his cereal.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Eating,” he says as a dribble of milk falls from his lips into a bowl. “Want some?”
“No. Maddox made pancakes this morning.”
He rolls his eyes.
I laugh. “I would bring you some, but then I remembered you threw me into the pool last night.”
“Yeah,” he says, licking a dot of milk off his bottom lip. “I did.”
I shiver. To hide the movement, I sit at the table.
“Have a seat,” he says after I’m already sitting.
I ignore him and look around.
The kitchen is a mess but not dirty. There’s stuff piled on the other end of the table, on most of the counters, and a lopsided box by a door that I presume goes to the garage.
The trash can is overflowing with pizza boxes and paper towels, and a blanket is draped over a barstool.
“What?” he asks.
“Are you a hoarder?”
He lets the spoon clink against his bowl. “Are you always a pain in the ass?”
“I’m just saying that there are systems you can use that help you declutter.”
“I like things the way they are.”
“How do you find anything?”
“Because it’s where I put it.”
“Huh.” I shrug and look at him again. “I’ll cut to the chase. I need your help.”
“Nope.” He gets up and takes his bowl to the sink. “Not helping you ever again.”
I sigh. “I don’t need you to do anything. I just need to borrow something.”
He leans his back against the cabinet. His abs are a freaking washboard, rippling as he moves. Dear Lord.
Banks stares at me like I’m an alien, like I showed up here and operate under a set of rules that don’t make sense.
“What?” I ask.
“You realize that no one comes here to borrow my stuff, right?”
“That’s not true because I’m here to borrow your stuff.”
“No. That’s not how this works.”
“That’s not how what works?”
He spreads his arms out. “This. My life. I’m the borrower, not the borrow-ee. I borrow everyone else’s things. They don’t borrow mine.”
A satisfied smirk looks very good on Banks Carmichael. A fact I wish I didn’t know …
I square my shoulders to his. “I’m not everyone else.”
“No, you’re not. You have less of a chance than they do to borrow my stuff.” He cocks his head to the side. “You show up here, move in with my brother—”
“For a few days.”
“Join us for pizza night—”
“I was invited.”
“You walk in my front door uninvited—”
“It wasn’t locked.”
He stands tall. “And now you think you can borrow my stuff?” His voice rises. “Who do you think you are?” He takes a deep breath. “Me?”
I roll my eyes, undeterred by his antics. “Obviously, I don’t think I’m you. If I were you, I wouldn’t need your help.”
“Well, you’re over here ignoring personal boundaries and thinking my things are community property. That’s very me of you to think.”
“I quite like your way of thinking when it benefits me.” I narrow my eyes. “Like now.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not helping you.”
“Do you have a little thing you use to make sure your tires have enough air in them?”
He watches me like he’s not sure what to do with me—which is precisely the reaction I wanted. The fucker practically blackmailed me, pulled me into his lap and set my libido on fire, and then threw me into the pool—and then left.
While I might not be exactly mad about it, if I must be frustrated, sexually or otherwise, he does, too. Period.
“A tire pressure gauge?” he asks.
I shrug. “There’s a light on in my car about my tires. I assume that’s what it means. Anyway, I don’t have the thingy to check it.”
“You know there’s one built-in to the air pumps at gas stations, right?”
I lean forward. “No, I didn’t know that. But I’d like to check it before I go.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Where are you going?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is if you want my tire pressure thingy.”
I glare at him. He finds it amusing.
For some reason, I don’t want to tell him where I’m going. I’m not embarrassed that I’m meeting The Businessman, but the idea of telling Banks I’m meeting a guy for a quickie and then a fake fiancé proposal doesn’t make me all warm and fuzzy inside.
“Forget it,” I say, starting to stand.
“Stop.” He groans, tilting his head to the ceiling. “Just … stop.”
I lower myself back into the chair and try not to fix my gaze on his Adam’s apple. The alternative is to look at his pecs, abs, and glorious arms. Not. Helping.
“You’re really driving me nuts,” he says, dropping his chin again and looking at me.
“Why?”
He sighs. “Are you going to tell me where you’re going or not? Your tire pressure might not be good for going to the beach, but it might be okay to go to the grocery store.”