Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“No? You could just make business calls then.” It’s a snippy, prim response, and I want to wince, but I won’t give him the pleasure.
I don’t know how it started or when it happened, but all week, I’ve been preparing for battle. For a war. This man isn’t the enemy, so I don’t know what I’m actually fighting. Maybe indifference or whatever has him laced so hard and tight that he can’t allow himself to unwind just a little. His surprising life story from last week in the barn feels like it never happened. He probably filed that under extreme mistakes and won’t be repeating it.
It’s a lot for just having met him once. I also sense there’s something more, something I should guard myself against, but I see nothing other than his ridiculous sexiness and the primal way my body responds. That’s all I have to go on. Goading him doesn’t seem wise, but that’s the way I’m choosing this battle.
“I have no business calls to make.” His voice is smooth, dark chocolate wrapping all around me. “This is my time. I’ve cleared my schedule.”
I sweep my hand to the table that’s overflowing with piles of fabric and half-finished dresses. “Oh, shoot. I’m so sorry.” I bat my eyelashes at him. I even applied extra mascara to make them long and full. I’m never going to have soft, soupy, cartoon-character eyes, but I did the best I could. “Some of these dresses are for a wedding. If I don’t get them out, the poor bride is going to have nothing for her wedding party. Her special day will be ruined because of me.” Well, it is true, but the wedding is still six months away. It’s a winter wedding for a lovely woman who lives in California and doesn’t have to be worried about things like snow in January.
Harder, colder, deadlier, and frostier eyes stare me down.
More liquid heat swirls in my belly, along with a heartbeat that’s insistent in making itself known in the most miraculous spot of…between my legs. I don’t know what happened to my body or why it turned traitor, but it has something to do with this man’s chemistry.
Duh, obviously. He’s basically sex encased in an expensive suit, and my body recognizes that his body is delicious and glorious, and he smells divine, and it wants. Even if that want goes against the rules and laws of my brain.
“Erm, well, if you could just give me two uninterrupted hours, I could whip them up and do the final touches in the morning. But I’d really like these two hours. Would you like a book to read? I have handheld electronic games. Video games? You could play online poker.”
He looks like he’d rather be at a piercing place—ready to offer up his genitals—than do any of those options. Which begs the question…why is he even here at all? Is he regretting that contract? If he were, he’d just pay it out. He has oodles and oodles of money. It wouldn’t even matter to him. Maybe it’s the principle. Maybe he’s a finish-what-he-started kind of person.
Postscript: why did my traitor brain have to come up with that analogy? Imagining this man’s hmmm pierced is nothing short of obscene. In a very clit and leg-liquifying kind of way.
This is about going into battle to shield myself, not about getting closer to him by breaking through his icy exterior, even if I think he does need to open up. He’s lonely. He’s hurting. I don’t want to press on that and break him. Instead, I want to press on it and help him. He might be hotter than sin, and the worst things are always the most tempting, but this doesn’t have to end in sex. It can just end in something as soft and powerful as a hug. I think he needs one of those.
I think I need one, too.
But my gut is telling me it won’t end in just a hug. There’s something about him that needs guarding against, and it’s not the potent chemistry lab of his body that keeps screaming at mine to spontaneously start with experiments percolating in my lady bits.
“A book would be fine,” he finally growls out. His jaw looks so tight that it’s a miracle his face doesn’t split in half.
“And a cup of tea?” I offer.
He practically gags. “I’ll pass.”
“A glass of water then. Oh, and I went out and bought you some diabetic candy.”
“I don’t usually eat candy.”
Ooh, but he does look tempted. “Yes, I know you’re all spinach and white meat chicken, which I am planning on making for dinner, but you could have a gummy bear if you want.”
He very much looks like he’d enjoy one damn gummy bear, but then he closes himself off and denies himself. He shuts down on those few seconds of sweet, utter heaven. “Where are the books?”