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)
His grin doesn’t look entirely human, but in the next instant, the raw animal in it is gone, and he’s all million—or maybe billion—dollar charm. “Do you really have a pet crawfish?”
“That’s for you to find out.” Which he will. Right away. Because Pinchy McPinchy Claws’ tank is in the kitchen.
He doesn’t step in yet. He stays perfectly poised, perfectly huge, perfectly beautiful, and perfectly deadly right outside. “That’s for me to find out when?”
“When we’re on a first-name basis.”
One brow lifts just a hair as though I’ve surprised him. He shakes his head as if to say, see, I knew there was a reason I liked your profile above all. There’s something about you. You’ve got grit and spunk and all the other old-fashioned, slightly creepy words. Especially spunk. Shudder. That’s such a gross word. It’s like moist multiplied by ten thousand million to the power of just plain wrong.
“Beau Taves. Code word: crawfish.” As I already said is clearly implied in his tone of voice.
“I meant real first name basis, not code name or code word basis.” There’s no way this guy’s real name sounds like Bow Toes.
“That is my real name,” he says.
“You just arrive at someone’s house and give them your real name? Dude. Not cool.”
“Okay, you’re right. That’s not my real name.” I swear his eyes glisten like the night sky with a whole bunch of glittery stars in their depths and still look utterly frosty but beautifully frigid.
Hashtag pathetic over here, I know.
“Don’t give me your real name.”
“I won’t. Even if I just did.” He smirks.
Riddles. Great. Just what my libido doesn’t need, on top of his already over-the-top, in-your-face, blatant-as-all-fuck sexiness.
“Great, Beau who’s not Beau. Code word: crawfish. Come on in. Do you like chai tea?”
“I happen to abhor it,” he replies.
I grin. “Oh, good. That’s all I have. Can I offer you water or milk?”
“I’ll have the tea.”
Shit. A sucker for punishment. I’m so screwed. Good thing this contract involves absolutely none of that. In this life, if I’m one thing, it’s a stickler for not breaking an iron-clad agreement. We haven’t written it yet, but we will, and I’ll make sure that no matter what goes on that paper, I’ll be protected, safe, and okay coming out of it. Beau can leave that way, too. Despite his willingness to drink tea that he hates.
Or maybe because of it.
Any guy who is willing to take one for the team in the name of being a polite guest can’t be so bad, can he?
Chapter two
Beau
Beau Taves really is my name. And this woman truly does have a pet crawfish in a giant tank in her kitchen. It takes up at least half the counter.
The house is very farmhouse. It’s probably a nineteen-fifties building, but it could be earlier. Unless someone painted it before they sold it, it was this woman who did the work. She’d gotten the yard mowed immaculately, golf-course-green style. The farmhouse glowed when I pulled up, proudly showing off its white paint. Not a single chip or peeling patch could be spotted. But the roof shingles didn’t look new, and they were broken and falling apart in spots. The barn and shop were dead giveaways as to why this woman does what she does, inviting strangers to share her bed.
She thumps a full mug of steaming hot, smelly chai tea down on one side of a round oak table that has good grain. Real antique grain. She even has matching chairs with black upholstered squares in the middle of the oak frames. But the inside of the house isn’t as fresh as the outside, and it’s not clean.
If I’m one thing, it’s a stickler for neatness.
Alright, the house is clean, but it’s definitely not neat. There’s clutter everywhere, which immediately makes my throat close up. Most people would call it homey. I call it a near abomination. But it doesn’t matter what I feel about the house. I’m here for the long haul.
I’m pretty sure the white and black tiled floor here in her kitchen is original to nineteen ninety, not the original era of the house. It has that look that screams out niche nineties when everyone was doing tile work. The white laminate countertops look like they’d be from the same era. The room is tiny, and around the corner, I can see the living room, which has an antique floral sectional that curves around with wooden spots for end tables in the middle of it. She has a gas stove in here, a pot rack above that, a tidy row of white cupboards, and spotless white sheer curtains at the window beside the sink. There’s another window beside the table with a matching set of curtains. The walls aren’t painted. Instead, they’re wallpapered in the most yellow floral country kitchen color that ever existed.