Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
She sighs. “Maybe he’s trying to get in with the Larsons?”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I don’t want to say it, but I don’t want to see you hurt again, either.”
“I know.” She wrings her hands together. “Obviously, I know that’s possible, but what if he’s genuine? What if I finally found the one genuinely nice man in the whole country?”
“Then I’ll be happy for you,” I tell her. “But—”
“I know. Be careful.” She pauses. “It’s not black and white, anyway.”
“How so?”
“Maybe part of him does want to meet Dad because he’s, well, Dad, but maybe the rest of him loves me. Two things can be true at once.”
Before I can reply, she starts the steady sound of the sewing machine again. I pick up my laptop, thinking about what she said. Two things can be true: I want to be steamy with Lukas again, and I’d never do anything to hurt my best friend.
“Coffee?” I call over the sound of the machine a few minutes later.
“We just had some. Didn’t you sleep last night? Is your mattress okay?”
“Guess it was the new environment,” I reply, hoping she can’t see the panic thrumming in me.
The truth is, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, we were back in the pool. He was under the water, his passion making the bubbles pop on the surface as my sex heated up and sent pleasure tingling throughout my body.
When I step into the kitchen, he’s there, my man. My best friend’s dad. Not my man. Something is seriously wrong with me. He’s at the coffee machine. I didn’t hear him over the sound of the sewing machine and my music.
“Want one?” he asks, looking in my general direction, somewhere above my head, as though he finds it as difficult to look at me as I do at him.
“Sure, thank you.”
“No problem.”
I sit at the bar, picking at the countertop, then forcibly stop my hand. My breath is coming way too fast. Glancing behind me, I see Kayla on the other side of the cavernous open-plan room, focused on her work, the machine chugging away.
“I need to say something about yesterday,” I whisper.
Across the kitchen divider, his body tenses. He keeps a fake smile glued to his face, just in case Kayla glances over. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” I say. “Later…”
He nods. “I’ll find you at the right moment.”
That sends far too many hot signals dancing through me. I remember the heat of the water. His tongue. His lips against mine. His end against my core, trying to claim me.
“It’s nothing like that,” I make clear.
He turns to the coffee machine, showing me his broad, muscled back through his T-shirt. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or relieved. After making my coffee, he passes it to me. Our hands brush. Temptation grips me. I carry the cup back into the living room, glancing at Kayla.
She offers me a smile, no clue I’m making secret plans behind her back.
Later, when Kayla is in the gym, I hear a tapping noise against my window. My heart flutters as I rush to the glass, pressing my face against it. Lukas is standing in the garden, a pile of stones in his hand. Even though we both know this is beyond wrong, he’s got a smirk on his face, mirroring the smile that touches my lips.
Walking through the house, I consciously try to tame the smile. I take slow breaths to calm down the fluttering in my heart. The last thing I want is to let my deep, burning desire overtake common sense.
He leans against the wall in the garden, hands in his pockets, looking like a photo from a magazine. This isn’t just a thought that randomly pops into my head; he’s been in magazines many times. He’s wearing a baggy T-shirt, maybe trying to hide those throbbing muscles. After seeing him naked, it’s difficult not to strip away his clothes mentally.
“You wanted to talk?” he says.
I purposefully keep some distance between us. Kayla went into the gym only ten minutes ago, meaning we’ve got some time together. I nod, biting my lip. Then, I let my lip go when I see how feral it makes his expression. Does he like that? It doesn’t matter what he likes.
“I need to say,” I murmur, purposefully looking at the ground, “we can’t do anything like that again. In fact, Lukas, it’s probably better if we pretend that never happened.”
“Can you do that?” he asks, an almost playful tone in his voice like he’s subtly mocking me.
“It doesn’t matter if I can do it,” I tell him. “We have to do it.”
He swallows, his strong, thick neck shifting. I wonder if he trains it in the gym or if it is naturally interwoven with powerful muscle. “I know,” he says after a pause, “but I can’t stop thinking about you.”