Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Apparently, we’re not. “Sure you don’t just want company?”
“Not yours,” I throw over my shoulder.
I can hear his footsteps on my heels like they’re my own.
I don’t know what it is, but something inside me is boiling and I can’t stop it. Ever since he laid eyes on me. Ever since he dropped into this town like a brick from the sky. He even looks like a brick. A big brick wall, standing in my way all the time, waiting for me to run into him and break something, my nose probably.
His presumptions about me. Even his calling me tipsy now. He probably just thinks I’m the messed-up town drunk with no hope.
I stop at the next intersection and spin around on him. “The hell’s your problem?”
“Just want to make sure you get home.”
“I said I’m fuckin’ fine, I meant I’m fuckin’ fine, so fuckin’ fuck off already.”
“You sure cuss a lot.”
“I must have inspiration, then. You must be my muse.”
“You mean your fuckin’ muse.”
I stare Bridger down.
Hard.
Is this when I’m supposed to laugh? To thank him? Accept his offer of being my bodyguard, protecting me against myself?
“I am the permission-askin’ type,” I blurt out instead.
He squints at me, confused.
Okay, that was kind of an abrupt shift in topic, but it’s on my mind just as much. “You said I …” Suddenly I feel stupid. “Back at the restaurant. In the men’s room. You said …” Is it even worth it? Bringing this back up? “You said I wasn’t a gentleman.”
“Because you grabbed my ass.”
Everything goes weird on my face. “Doesn’t sound right when you say it so bluntly like that. I didn’t grab it like a … like a lech.”
“How’d you grab it then? Politely?”
“I didn’t grab it at all. I just … It was a joke. I—You know what? Never-fuckin’-mind, forget I said anything. I don’t need an escort. I don’t need your appreciation. Don’t need your respect. I know I say nice stuff at dinner sometimes. I’m a nice guy when you get to know me. I’m a fuckin’ ball of sunshine.”
I go to cross the street.
Then come the lights of a truck, blinding me.
My shirt is grabbed and I’m yanked out of the road just as a truck of teenage boys whizzes by—hooting and hollering, country music thumping loud from their windows.
My heart beat is stuck in my throat.
My eyes are full of denim.
My face against a firm, muscular chest.
Arms are wrapped tightly around me, a cage of warmth.
I slowly straighten up, in shock, bringing my wide-open eyes level with his.
With Bridger’s.
He looks stunned, too, as if pulling me back and wrapping his arms around me was a reflex he didn’t intend to do.
This close up, I can see every detail in his face. His bright blue eyes, brighter and deeper than my own. The way his nostrils flare from the recent effort of yanking me out of the path of that death truck, breathing deep. His plush and parted lips, showing a row of annoyingly perfect teeth. The slight flush in his cheeks.
It’s disarming, how Bridger looks at me. I noticed this before. He never looks at you half-assed. He looks at you fully. Allowing you his pure, undivided attention. Seeing you completely, seeing you with all his might, capturing every word you utter.
And the ones you don’t.
“The … fuck just … happened?” I say. Or at least I think I say it. I might breathe the words. Or just think them.
“Almost got hit by a truck,” he replies in a calm, gentle tone, confirming I did just use my mouth to make words.
“Feels like … like my fuckin’ soul’s still out on the … the road. Hasn’t c-come back to my body yet.”
“That’s fine,” says Bridger. Why is his voice so soft and tender like that, giving me chills to hear it? “You can stay right here ‘til that soul comes on back.”
My face wrinkles up. I fight an instinct to tell him I don’t need to be in his arms, he doesn’t need to hold me so tightly, this is too close, too intimate, too weird.
But every cell inside my petrified body says something else.
It reminds me how comfortable I felt last night at the church when I passed out—in Bridger’s arms. I felt safe then. Safe enough to drift into the deepest sleep.
I feel just as safe right now.
Except I’m not drifting off to sleep on the hard-ass floor of a church. I’m wide awake.
“I was serious,” I tell him. “About … the permission thing. I’m a good guy. Would’ve asked permission, had I known.”
Bridger’s face is so goddamned close. “Had you known what?”
“That you’re …” My tongue can’t talk to my teeth, which can’t talk to my jaw, which can’t talk to my stupid throat. All my words sound funny. “That you’re into guys.”