Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
“Didn’t ask you if you minded,” he replied, taking the plates from my hands. But he didn’t walk to the sink immediately. Didn’t even move. He just stood there, the plates between us. “You make a kickass grilled cheese, cupcake,” he murmured.
I looked down at the plates, no longer able to hold his penetrating gaze. I did make a kickass grilled cheese.
“Thanks,” I responded in a small, shaky voice.
At that, he stepped backward and moved to the sink. I watched the muscles of his back move underneath his tee, hypnotized. I was overcome with the need to walk up behind him and reach my fingers underneath that tee and trace every one of his muscles with my fingertips.
I quickly shook away those thoughts, reminding myself that would make an already complicated situation that much more complicated.
Instead of doing what almost every instinct in my body was telling me to do, I just sat back on the barstool and watched him work. Normally, I wouldn’t do something like that. I would’ve grabbed my phone, a book, any instrument of distraction that I could hide behind. But I had a good amount of wine in me at that point and a male specimen who redefined the word handsome, so I just stared at him. In my kitchen. Doing dishes.
When he was done, he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and turned back around.
I think I fell half in love with him right then, standing in my kitchen, drying his hands on my kitchen towel.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?” I asked in a sigh.
“No way in fuck,” he said, not on a sigh. I would say it was closer to a growl. Up until that very moment, I hadn’t thought men actually growled things. I thought it was creative license taken by some of my favorite romance authors. And I loved it. In fiction.
Because I had not encountered such a thing in real life. Until that moment.
And it was safe to say I adored it in real life.
“I have the guest bedroom made up,” I whispered, my voice shaking. What I really wanted to say was that he could sleep in my room. The words got stuck in my throat, though, too gnarled with fear.
I got off the barstool without any kind of grace. But I didn’t fall down, at least.
“I’ll show you,” I said quickly, almost running out of the room.
I didn’t look back to see if he was following, I knew he was from the low thump of his feet against my floor and the tap of Maggie’s nails.
Though I didn’t think you could ‘feel’ someone checking you out, I couldn’t help but think Rowan’s eyes were focused on my ass.
Until I tripped over a step.
“Woah, you okay?”
His hands were at my hips, and his heat behind me nearly knocked me over. Yet he was behind me, and something instinctual in me told me this was a man who wouldn’t let me fall.
“Fine,” I rasped out.
He didn’t let me go. Not immediately. We lingered there, his hands on my waist. We might’ve lingered there a lot longer if Maggie hadn’t whined in protest from somewhere behind me.
We were caging the poor pooch on the stairs.
That got me moving. Once free, Maggie brushed past me and waited at the top of the stairs for both of us, tail wagging.
I scratched her head on the way past, walking to the guest room on unsteady legs.
The floor lights lit up with motion, the sconces on the walls already on. Photos from the past five years lined the walls in the hallway in a mishmash of vintage frames. Me outside the bakery, before it was redone, posing with the ‘sold’ sign. Various group shots of Tina, Tiffany, Fiona and me. Ansel was in a few from when he came to visit. It was my very curated timeline of my life with large chunks noticeably missing. Namely my entire childhood.
I didn’t know whether Rowan was inspecting them or not because I didn’t look back. I didn’t trust myself to.
The guest bedroom was beside my study and had a window that looked onto my vast property before the rugged seaside took over.
I’d taken great care in outfitting it in the same kind of elevated, vintage style as the rest of my house.
“So, there’s a bathroom in here.” I walked in, switching the light on, checking that it was appointed with towels even though I knew it was.
The walk-in shower was tiled in forest green slate. The waterfall showerhead was brushed brass as were all the fixtures.
“Extra toothbrushes in here.” I opened the cabinet in the vanity, pointing to the toothbrushes, still in their packages along with various mini versions of my favorite toiletries. All manner of things a person sleeping over at my house might need.