Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“Only where it counts,” he says with a wink.
And I’m a little flustered. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
Of course he is, you dingus. He’s a man.
Show me a man who doesn’t crow about the size of his dong and I’ll show you a leprechaun.
I snap my gaze back to the racks, hunting feverishly for an extra-large dick—I mean, an extra-large shirt.
I need a shirt. That is all.
Ah! Bingo. I spot a gray auto-repair shop shirt with a patch that reads Magnus. “Well, Mister Six Six, this one seems perfect for you,” I say, then thrust it at him.
“I’m actually six three,” he says, lifting his hand to the top of his head to indicate his real height, then he peers at the name on the shirt. “The name does fit.”
Does Carter moonlight as a dildo model?
Stop, you dirty perv.
“It’s only a large though,” I say, trying to stick to the task at hand. Sizes of shirts, not rods. I call out to Angel, “Any chance Magnus left a shirt in a large and an extra large?”
He chuckles, a big, booming, baritone laugh. “Magnus is one of a kind, but I might have something else for you. Be right back, darlings.”
“Try this on anyway,” I say to Carter, staying in full bossy shopping mode. “Let’s hope it fits like an extra large.”
Carter smirks at me, then takes his time before he says, “That’s what she said.”
Am I sweating now? I hope not. Boob sweat is not a good look in a body-con dress. “Go, go, go,” I say, searching for a dressing room. Shoving him into one and out of sight might similarly hide his naughty comments from my suddenly filthy mind.
I spot a booth a few feet away and push him toward it. “Try it on now.”
Carter ducks in and starts unbuttoning his blue shirt. I know this because…that curtain barely covers the stall. It may be the smallest curtain ever. It doesn’t hide anything.
Like…
The breadth of Carter’s pecs.
The smattering of chest hair over them.
Or that hair trailing down, down, down and…
His abs.
He has abs for days.
For months.
They go on forever, and that brown hair is the happiest trail I’ve ever seen.
My throat is dry.
My chest is hot.
My skin is tingling.
“How about this one?”
I jump at the sound of the deep voice. Maybe I shriek, too, as I tear my Peeping Tammy gaze from the dressing room curtain to Angel, who’s standing next to me.
“Sorry to scare you, darling.”
“I’m fine,” I squeak out right as Carter steps out of the dressing room…and, dear god, I’m not so fine anymore.
I’m having heart palpitations as I stare shamelessly at his chest. I can’t look away from all that muscle, all that golden skin, all that masculine hardness. Everywhere.
Angel whistles approvingly. “Well, hello there. Let me just go get some cheese for that grater you’ve got, thank you very much.”
Carter laughs. “I work out a little.”
“Understatement,” Angel says, then hands Carter the shirt. “This is your fine-ass size, darling.”
My friend turns back into the dressing room. I still can’t move. I can’t speak. I am officially stuck here.
There’s a tap on my shoulder then a psst in my ear. “Your jaw is open, darling,” Angel mouths.
As red seeps into my cheeks, I shut my hungry mouth, stat, then try to bleach my mind clean.
I think of things like traffic lights. And deviled eggs. And week-old moldy bread.
There. That’ll do. I’m all good.
But when Carter steps out of the dressing room with the new shirt buttoned up, I can’t stop looking at the name tag.
I’m pretty sure it can see inside my soul right now.
Randy.
6
A SHIRTLESS-NESS HANGOVER
Rachel
I’ve always known Carter had a strong body. He’s played football since forever. I went to his games in high school.
But when we sneaked off with our friends to midnight bonfires on Stinson Beach senior year, and he went for late-night dips with the other guys, he was leaner, lankier. His abs weren’t quite so defined. When I crashed in his dorm one night during college and woke up to him wandering in from the showers, towel slung low on his hips, I wasn’t awake enough to take mental pics.
Now I know what was missing from my memories, and I hate every shirt for coming between that view and me.
I’m still in a man chest daze twenty minutes later when we arrive at the boutique hotel on the Marina. The valet’s eyes widen when I step out, then they linger on my very visible cleavage, but in a flash, Carter is by my side.
“Thanks, man,” he says to the guy, slapping the key fob into his palm then ushering me away.
It all happens so quickly, I’m honestly not sure if the guy was staring too long, but I do like Carter’s surprisingly possessive side as we walk into the hotel.