Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“I’d wear pajama bottoms all the time if I were a kid,” I say, hating that Ben’s riding her ass. She’s obviously doing her best. Melissa always does her best. It’s a core feature of her personality. Always has been, ever since we were kids.
“Right? I’ll be putting my pajama pants on as soon as we walk through the door.”
“Hot,” I say, hoping a little flirting might lift her spirits. “You’re cute in baggy pants.”
“I am not,” she snaps. “Which brings me to the third and final rule: No talking about fucking. No flirting. No foreplay. It would be best if you forget I’m a woman and we can ride out the next few weeks as bros.”
I narrow my eyes at her profile. “Bros?”
“Bros,” she insists.
“Do you feel like I’m your bro? Would it be easy for you to forget I’m a man?”
“I’ve already forgotten,” she says. “Oh, and one more rule. You have to pee sitting down. I’m not about to wipe up a grown man’s pee. I already have enough toddler pee to deal with.”
I make a victorious sound that hurts a little as it emerges from my chest. “See! You can’t forget I’m a man. You’re thinking about my dick already.”
“Your dick in a peeing capacity, not a fun capacity.”
“So, you admit you had fun?” I ask, pushing on before she can get a word in, “Because I sure did. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, honestly. And I sure as hell haven’t been naked with anyone else.”
Her gaze slides my way before darting back to the road. “You’re such a liar.”
“I’m not. Once you’ve had the best, why mess with the rest?”
Her lips quirk. “You’re so full of it.”
“I’m not. You need to work on your self-esteem, baby girl. You gotta believe in yourself. I know I do. That thing you did with your mouth and my left ball will haunt me for the rest of my life.”
She points a firm finger my way as she pulls into her subdivision. “I’m serious, Aaron. I will turn this car around right now and take you back to your gram’s. I’m not interested in flirting with you or fornicating with you or anything else. That was one night. Yes, it was a fun night, but it’s over, and I have way too much on my plate to mess around with a guy who’s only here for a good time, not a long time.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be a good time, what with all the pain and blood and physical therapy, but…” I sigh, feeling sadder than I would have expected. I mean, I knew this was how she felt. I should have known better than to think anything had changed. Must be the painkillers, making me even more stupidly optimistic than usual. “But I get it,” I say in a softer voice. “I will respect all the rules of your home.”
She nods, but she’s still frowning. “Good.”
“Good,” I echo, forcing a smile. “Do I still get steak, old buddy bro pal? Or have I pissed you off too much for you to want to share a meal with me?”
Her forehead relaxes as she exhales. “You still get steak. But now you have to try roasted turnips with me instead of grilled broccolini.”
I groan theatrically. “No, not turnips. Anything but turnips! They taste like sour dirt.”
She grins. “Not the way I cook them. My turnips are delicious. You’re going to eat your words and ask for seconds.”
“I probably will,” I admit as she pulls into her driveway.
When it comes to Melissa McGuire, I’ll always want seconds. And thirds and fourths and her sweet, sassy ass waiting to give me shit when I get home every night.
But that clearly isn’t meant to be, so I have to respect her rules…for now.
At least until I’m strong enough to pin her against the wall with one hand while I remind her clitoris how much it likes me with the other…
A better man would not still be daydreaming about getting his hands down Mel’s pants, but I can’t help myself. I’m going to keep trying to win her over until she marries another man, or they put me in the ground—whichever comes first.
Chapter 9
Melissa
I don’t like Aaron Boudreaux.
I don’t like him at all—even as a friend—but I especially don’t like him as anything more. The fact that we had an amazing dinner last night, filled with easy-flowing conversation and more laughter than I’ve enjoyed in a single hour in longer than I can remember is due to two things: empathy and drugs.
After seeing him in such a vulnerable state in the hospital, my heart is still soft and squishy when it comes to the man, and he’s way more enjoyable when he’s high. The painkillers seem to soften his more aggressive and annoying tendencies.