Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“You gotta eat. You look pale.”
I wave him off, holding my breath and fighting through the pain while I retreat upstairs. “I’m taking a bath. Do not disturb.”
“Fuckin stubborn.” He picks up the phone and calls for more room service. Just before I slam the door, the magic word travels up the stairs. Tacos.
Not this time, jumbo jerk.
Placing the bottles on the counter, I turn on the water. While it’s filling, I attempt to work my shirt off. The problem is my shoulder is so sore, it’s painful to lift my arm. “Come on, just slide over—owww,” I groan, having to drop my arm. Fuck! I look at myself in the mirror, homing in on the glorious tub in the reflection. “I just want to take a bath,” I whine. I weigh my options. Take one with my clothes on, don’t take one at all, or ask Tate for help.
I debate a moment longer. “Worse sacrifices have been made,” I tell myself and limp back down the stairs, finding Tate on the couch. “I need your help.”
“With?”
“I want to take a bath, but… my shoulder… I can’t get my shirt off on my own. I need you—”
“All right.” He stands and walks over. “Let’s go.” I turn around and totter up the stairs, Tate following behind me. Once in the bathroom, I stop and face him.
“No funny business. I just need help.”
He doesn’t reply or comment. His hands go to the hem of my shirt and gently lift it up my stomach, making sure not to hurt me. “Can you raise your arm at all?”
“Yeah, but only this far.” I lift it halfway.
He maneuvers my left hand slowly, stretching my shirt sleeve and sliding my arm through. I try not to acknowledge that I’m partially shirtless and the way he’s touching me has my nipples hard. “I’m going to slide it over your head now,” he warns. I nod, holding my breath. Gently, he works my shirt over my head. I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m motionless, wondering if he’ll try to touch me more. Take back everything he said earlier. His gaze sears into me, and I beg for his lips on mine. His eyes skim over my collarbone before dropping to my chest. When his fingers graze my shoulder blade, I can’t hide the goosebumps that rush over my skin.
His voice is soft. “Do you need help with your pants?”
I should say no. I definitely don’t. But my aching arousal says otherwise.
“Yes.” He nods and locks his fingers inside the waistline of my yoga pants, lowering them with a slowness that may kill me. My heart beats erratically. I hold my breath, waiting for his next move. He lifts one leg, and I step out, then repeat the process with the other. His nose is so close to my core, there’s no way he can’t know how turned on I am.
By the time he drops my pants and stands, I’m close to becoming undone. He stares down at me. I know he feels it, too. This connection. It sparks between us, threatening to set the world on fire.
“Tate…” His name falls from my lips without permission.
“Take your bath. I’ll get you ice for that shoulder.”
Then he’s gone, and I allow the first tear to fall.
Chapter eleven
Mindy
I don’t know how long I stood in the same spot, giving in to my tears. Sexual frustration ate at me. Confusion suffocated me. Annoyance was the end of me. I stopped acting like a baby and attempted to enjoy the nice hot bath but couldn’t get in without getting my stitches wet. After twenty minutes of maneuvering and failing, I attempted the shower, to no avail, and gave myself a sink bath, then stayed holed up in my part of the suite, keeping my distance. It was for the best. Our only interaction was Tate bringing me ice for my shoulder and dinner, which I ate—tacos aren’t to blame here—before I took my pain meds and passed out.
Now, I’m standing in my en suite, running late to meet Fay at the bridal salon and back at square one. A knock on the door grabs my attention. “What?” I snap.
“Let me in. I’ll help you.”
“What makes you think I need your help?” I ask like I haven’t been trying to wrestle on a shirt for the last twenty minutes.
“Open the door, Mindy.”
I want to refuse, but unless I’m wearing the hotel robe—the only thing I’m capable of putting on and taking off—I don’t have another choice.
“Just be quick.” As in, don’t linger and turn me on. I huff and open the door. He is, thank god. Before I know it, I’m dressed and ready. His SUV is parked out front, and he opens the door but doesn’t buckle me in. My chest twinges. When he climbs in, I turn on the music to distract me from the disappointment, and for once, he doesn’t immediately turn it off.