Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
14
ELORA
40.8021° N, 124.1637° W
“I’m back,” Roman calls out, and I glance at the open bathroom door like I have the ability to see into the main room.
“One second,” I mumble around the foam in my mouth before I spit, then rinse, and I dry my face on the hand towel before hanging it back up.
My stomach clenches when I step out of the bathroom and find him standing across the room, still wearing the baseball cap he put on after he kissed me good morning and told me that he was going to get us food. A kiss that twisted my stomach into knots but somehow felt familiar, as if I’d experienced it a million times before. Even though last night was the first time he really kissed me.
His eyes move over me, making my skin prickle with hyperawareness. A new sensation when it comes to him. “The shop called while I was out. The van’s ready.”
“Really?” I stop halfway across the room and glance at the old-timey clock on the dresser. “It’s not even nine.”
“They were able to track down a new motor yesterday and installed it first thing this morning.” He shrugs, walking toward me.
“So, we should be in San Francisco this afternoon?”
“Depending on traffic, yeah.”
“Awesome.” I look up at him when he’s standing in front of me and feel his hand come to rest on my hip. “Did you call your friend to let him know?”
“Not yet, but I will.” His hand slides around, moving to my lower back, then up, becoming fingers tangled in my hair that force my head back, using his grip to lift me onto my toes.
My scalp tingles, and my hands land on his chest, a sound I can’t control climbing up the back of my throat when his fist tightens. “Rom—”
His mouth covers mine, cutting me off, and I melt into the kiss. He tastes like coffee, mint, and him. My hands move up his chest, coming to rest on his shoulders while his free hand slides under the edge of my T-shirt, wrapping around my side and moving up until his thumb comes to rest on the underside of my breast. I move my hands up the back of his neck into his hair, which I found out last night is just as soft and as thick as I thought it would be.
Using his size and the hold he has on me, he starts walking me backward toward the bed, and the moment my legs bump into the mattress, they buckle. I never lose his mouth as his weight comes down on me, and I fall to my back. Nudging my legs apart with his knee, he curls over me, tugging my head back with his hand still clenched in my hair.
The scrape of his beard on my skin makes me laugh as his lips trail down my throat, and he stops. His head comes up, his eyes wandering over my face.
“What?” I ask, still smiling.
“I just fucking love that sound.” He leans up and softly touches his mouth to mine, then pulls back. “Ready to eat?”
“Yeah.” With one more press of his lips to mine, he stands, bringing me with him. He leads me over to the bistro set, where coffee and containers of food are set out. I take a seat, and he sits across from me.
“Pancakes, omelet, or oatmeal?” he asks, passing me a paper cup filled with coffee.
“Pancakes.”
He pushes the container with a P written on top in my direction. I open the lid, then take one of the sets of plastic utensils inside a napkin and unwrap it.
“Did they tell you how much the van is going to cost when we pick it up?”
“I already paid over the phone,” he replies, and I look up at him with a bite of pancake an inch from my lips.
“You paid already?”
“It was a little over a hundred dollars, Elora,” he says softly, opening the lid on the container with an OM on top.
“A hundred dollars?” I ask in disbelief. There’s no way the part plus labor was only a hundred bucks.
“I told you it wouldn’t be much.”
“It was only a hundred dollars for them to remove my entire dash, find and purchase the part, and replace the motor on the wipers, then put it all back together?”
“The van’s old. Things don’t cost as much,” he mutters, and I press my lips together.
Now I know for sure he’s lying. My van is old and foreign, which means things actually cost more because the parts are difficult to track down.
“Roman, I know you're lying,” I whisper, setting down my fork, and he watches with his jaw clenched. “How much was it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Elora—”
“I’m not a charity case. I don’t need you to pay for me.”
“Did I say you’re a charity case?” he asks, and I can tell from his tone that he’s getting angry, but I’m getting angry, too.