Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“Good thing you’ve already seen them once, I guess,” I say.
He rummages through his bag again and pulls out a long-sleeved shirt.
“Was one of your top search terms ‘Things to put in a backpack’?” I ask.
He tosses the shirt at me. “You’re welcome.”
“What else do you have in there?”
“Jerky. Nuts. Water.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Any candy bars? Mints? Gum?”
He wrinkles his nose back at me. “No. No junk food.”
Red flag. “How long do you think we’re going to be stranded here?” I ask.
“The tornado warning is until four o’clock, but Tate said the storm is supposed to stick around all night.”
“All night? Are you kidding me? Did you even look at the weather this morning?”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t plan the date.”
He strips himself of his shirt, displaying his bare chest and rock-hard abdomen in plain sight.
My God.
“Well, I did plan the date,” he says, “but I don’t claim to be a pseudo-meteorologist, either. The sky looked clear when we left.”
I should say something, but I’m apparently unable to come up with a quick retort and stare at his thick shoulders and the way they slope from his neck to his arms at the same time.
He kicks off his shoes and socks. “We should grab some content here. How often do you get trapped in a cabin on a date?”
My mind immediately goes to X-rated content, and my cheeks heat.
Ripley drops his shorts to the floor. That doesn’t help. He stands in front of me wearing a pair of black boxer briefs—and nothing else.
The storm rages on outside the cabin, and a small storm begins to stir inside me, too.
His thighs are muscled, stretching the fabric around them. The ratio from his shoulders to his waist is perfection. Lines are cut into his groin, directing attention to the bulge in his briefs, and I try to throttle the dizzying current racing through me.
“What?” he asks, smirking. “Do I have something on me?”
He runs his hands over his chest as if inspecting himself for a blemish. My gaze follows the movement, moving from his pecs to his shoulders, and then down to his waistband.
His eyes hold a maddening touch of arrogance, which is enough to snap me out of my daze.
Two can play this game, pal.
“Yeah, you had a bit of drool on your stomach, but you got it,” I say, meeting his smirk with one of my own. I grab the edge of my shirt and slowly drag it over my head.
The fabric is cold and heavy as it lifts, and the air meeting my damp skin causes a flurry of goose bumps. But my insides are smoldering. I barely even notice.
My heart pounds as I remove my shoes and socks—bending over to give him a full view of my cleavage. I know what I’m doing, yet I don’t have a clue. I’m playing a perilous game that I can’t stop.
Ripley’s eyes rake boldly over my body. His Adam’s apple bobs just before he licks his lips. I’m uncertain if the wetness on his skin is from the rain or sweat.
His attention, his arousal, is flattering. The power from knowing a man this virile is attracted to me is heady. And the intensity of the flame licking my core is almost unbearable.
I’m only human.
But we’ve been here before …
My stomach twists into a tight knot as a cyclone of memories comes rushing back.
I’ve stood in front of him in my bra and felt his desire for me one other time. I’ve basked in the glow of being Ripley’s chosen girl. I trusted him, bamboozled by his good looks and dazzling charm, and I got crushed.
Because I made the mistake of thinking his intentions were real.
A full-body shiver hits me with full force.
Suddenly, everything is clear.
This really is just a game to him.
The sweet words, gentle touches, the fucking purple gloves—it was all a side quest in his effort to help out Jonah. He was using me as entertainment. And I fell for it.
In fact, if I hadn’t just come to that realization, I could have fallen for him.
My breath stalls in my throat.
Oh, my God.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a shadow dusting his features.
I laugh out of anger, mostly at myself. I knew better than to do this. How did I let this happen?
“Okay. All right. You win,” I say, pulling the long-sleeved shirt he gave me over my head. I don’t want to be enveloped by his clothes, or his cologne, but I also don’t want hypothermia.
“I win? What are you talking about?”
My mind races through the last few weeks. Ordering for me at Ruma. The promise of not letting me fall. The texts. The almost kisses.
You fucking asshole.
Fear mixes with embarrassment and swirls with anger inside me, creating a nasty cocktail threatening to explode.
“What’s going on, Georgia?”
“I hate to admit this, but you might’ve gotten one over on me,” I say, glaring at him. “Do you want to know where you went too far?”