Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26717 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Like I said, I kind of hate my life right now.
I’m about to move on to the next scowling looking customer, when suddenly, my roaming eyes freeze.
Holy shit.
The guy is, to put it mildly, gorgeous. Tall, tan, and built with a white t-shirt sticking to his powerful looking chest and shoulders like a second skin in the heat. He’s in surf shorts, too, and his slightly shaggy dark hair is pushed back from his absolutely beautiful face. His chiseled jaw has a swarth of scruff on it, which somehow makes him even better.
The guy is standing next to a parked pickup truck, and as I watch, he suddenly reaches down and peels his shirt right off. My breath catches, and I bite my lip as my cheeks flush. Holy sweet Jesus. His abs flex and ripple, and I can feel my pulse beating faster as he stretches and flexes his ripped, muscled frame. He reaches into his truck and pulls out a clean shirt, and I shamelessly watch as he tugs it back on.
“Miss! Are you fucking deaf!?”
I blink and startle, and my attention swivels to the voice screaming at me. I groan inside: it’s the same woman from a minute ago, with the extra extra glaze.
“Hi, can I help you?”
She sneers. “You can stop fucking ripping me off is what you can do to help! Extra! Do you fucking understand what that means?!”
“Ma’am, I’d be happy to fix your—”
“Refund! Now!”
I frown. Great, just what I need. Matt barely raises a finger to run this place. But for some reason, he’s got a sixth sense for sniffing out refunds. The woman shoves the box of buns my way, the lid half open. I open it the rest of the way and arch a brow: half of the dozen are gone.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t refund them if you’ve eaten them.”
“What!!” She screeches. “Well I had enough to check more than one to know that you’d fucked the whole thing up, you stupid bitch!”
I bristle. “Ma’am—”
“Fuck this place!” she yells. “And fuck you!”
I gasp as she shoves the whole box at me and whirls. Half-melting cinnamon buns tumble against my face, my chest, my arms—all of me, covering me in gross, tacky, sticky sugar glaze. The woman storms off, and the people in line start to chuckle.
I fucking hate my life.
I look up, but when my eyes find the truck, my face falls. The truck is still there, but the hot guy is gone.
So much for my eye candy, I grumble.
I try and napkin off some of the stickiness, but I’m already right back into taking orders. Sweat and sugar melt over my skin, and the blistering heat makes me feel like I’m actually melting. Order after barked, rude order, it feels like the world is pushing me down into a puddle of sugar, with no end in sight. Mercifully, finally, it the rush simmers out, and there’s finally no one in line.
Right then, the buzzer for the service door at the back of the shack, through the kitchen, goes off. I groan, my heart sinking. Now what. I’m soaked in sweat and frosting, my hair is slicked down the sides of my face, my feet are killing me, and I’m sure my porny white tank top is glazed, sweaty, and translucent enough at this point to look like it actually is from a porn set.
I traipse back into the blazing hot kitchen and yank open the back door.
“Yeah, what—”
I gasp, and I stop short. My eyes go wide, and my mouth falls open as my pulse skips a beat. Because standing right in front of me, is him—mister sexy change-my-shirt-in-public from before. Only now, he’s right here, towering over me, looking even freaking hotter.
…And here I am, dressed like a porn star, covered literally heat-to-toe in sugar frosting.
“Um…” I swallow. “Hi?”
He grins—God, why is he so fucking smoldering hot when he smiles? And even though I thought I already was, I melt even more.
“Hey, I’m here to cool you off.”
I snort. “Well good luck with that!”
What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. Me.
I cringe, physically, and I decide the best course thing I can possibly do right now is go drown myself in the vat of bun frosting. I’m waiting for him to ask if I’m having a stroke, or to just look at me like I’m insane. But instead, he just grins even wider.
“I’m from Farrow HVAC?”
I blink, still wondering how fast I can stick my entire head in the vat of frosting. Mr. Gorgeous grins again, and I swear, if they weren’t already melting off from the heat, my panties would be spontaneously combusting right now.
“I’m the AC repair guy,” he growls in a low, velvety and deep voice.
Oh fuck me sideways.
Chapter Two
West
Fuck it’s hot. My t-shirt feels like its clinging to my skin, and I can feel the sweat dripping down my back and chest. Southern Cali’s always hot, but shit, it’s this fucking humidity that’s killing me. I park the truck and groan. It’d be funny in a stupidly ironic way that my truck’s AC is out, seeings as I currently work for my Gramps’ AC repair business. But today, and all of this week actually, it’s a pretty shitty joke.