Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
I cross my arms. “You think you can guess my favorite color based on the one time you were in my house, go right ahead.”
He’s quiet a few moments, reaching to dial down the volume on the radio. “It’s blue.”
Whoa. “What makes you say that?”
“The pillows on your couch and the towels in your bathroom are blue, and your purse.”
Holy crap, he’s right—my favorite color is blue.
Rowdy grins, teeth blaringly white in the dim cab. “So I’m right?”
“Yes.”
“You know what else I think? You love this game as much as I do. It’s kind of long and drawn-out, like…”
Foreplay.
He doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what he’s thinking.
My face flushes because he’s right; I do like these games. They’re slightly ridiculous and cheesy and stupidly fun, and even though we haven’t gotten all that racy or sexual, the undertones of our recent conversations are getting more personal. Flirty. Testing our boundaries with each other, neither wanting to make the first move.
Rowdy finds my street without prompting, driving the hundred feet it takes to reach my house, pulling up to the curb and putting his truck in park. Idles, hands on the key buried in the ignition.
“I guess this is you.”
“This is me.”
Gripping my handbag—the one he noticed is blue—I unbuckle my seatbelt, fingers pawing for the handle, and I pause, twisting to face him. He’s watching me—of course he is—eyes half hooded in the moonlight, shadows playing across his expression. Mouth set into a line, almost in a downward turn.
“You look like you want to say something.”
“I’m just wondering…” His voice trails off. “What kind of guy Scarlett Ripley agrees to go on a date with.”
Not what I was expecting him to say. Not in that tone of voice—it’s low and expectant, like my answer might mean something important.
“That’s what you’re sitting there thinking about?”
“Humor me.” His velvety voice encourages me in the dark, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
“Well,” I begin slowly, releasing the door handle. Sit back and stare straight ahead up the empty street. Clear my throat, buying myself a few more seconds of time. “I’d like to be with someone who makes me laugh, someone funny…um…”
I shoot him a quick, sidelong glance, unnerved that he’s watching me so unflinchingly.
“Charming.”
“That’s your type? Charming?”
“I don’t think that’s a type, but sure, charming is my type. Maybe not…overly friendly. Black hair and big muscles would be my type, too.” I’m warming to the topic. “A sexy dork with a hot bod under his button-down shirt would be my type. A bad boy covered in tattoos would be my type.”
“Now it just sounds like you’re coming up with characters for a new book series.”
I shift in my seat. “What about you? What kind of girl does Sterling Wade ask on a date?”
He faces the street, looking out the window, down the road, thinking. “Not many.”
I wait for him to say more. “Uh, okay, but if you were going to ask someone on a date…”
He considers this, still watching the road. “She’d have to be someone I’d take home to my mother.”
Oh.
Oh.
The purse in my hands is satin, and I glide my fingers along the clasp until I hear the magnetic clasp snap. Open. Close. Adding to the underlying tension filling the cab of this truck.
I hesitate. “I have one bottle of wine in the fridge if you want to come in for a little bit.”
“Two.”
“Excuse me?”
“You have two bottles of wine in your fridge.”
I do? “How do you know?”
“Obviously I was rooting around the other night. The contents of your fridge were a real turn-on, if I’m being honest.”
Oh brother, this guy.
“Your appetite is going to get you in trouble one of these days.”
His grin is wicked. “I hope so.”
“Well…” I hesitate. “Come inside? We can play a proper game of Never Have I Ever, complete with alcohol.”
He unlocks the doors, huge hand already on the driver’s side door handle. “Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”
I don’t have to ask him twice.
Rowdy
Entering Scarlett’s kitchen is déjà vu, the small space exactly as it was the last time I was here: neat as a pin except for a dirty bowl and a plate set beside to the sink, blue dish towel folded into a tidy square.
Shoes neatly placed by the door. Keys hung on a hook. Chairs all pushed in, no clutter in sight.
I remove my hand from the small of her back to remove my jacket.
“You want anything to eat?” she asks, automatically playing hostess, fingers going to the belt at her waist, pulling gently, unknotting it. Her newly tan hands work the buttons, trailing up the front of her jacket, one toggle at a time.
I watch, transfixed—the anticipation of what’s beneath that jacket has me riveted.
Scarlett’s thick, black dress coat parts, revealing a dress, tan skin, and her beneath. Lace and boobs and legs. The jacket slides off and she hangs it by the door, narrow hips swiveling, balancing on a pair of wedge heels.