Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95340 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
It’s also warm enough that I’m wearing shorts and a tank top—but I’m not so savage I’m braless this time.
A pity, really.
“Thanks for taping off the room before I got here,” he says, his broad back to me, shoulder muscles flexing as he works the brush back and forth across the wall.
He’s wearing a tank top too—a bro tank, one that’s looser fitting and shows off the sides of his pecs, giving me a generous peek of his smooth chest.
“No, thank you for helping.” I brush a strand of hair that’s fallen in my eyes, painfully aware that there is pink paint in among my ponytail hairs.
Ugh.
“It’s the least I could do.”
I’m standing with one hand on my hip when he turns, his eyes doing a slow, steady climb—beginning at my toes, they stroll up. And up.
Over my legs, which I shaved to an inch of their lives.
My short shorts.
Belly.
Boobs.
Neck, face, and hair.
His expression remains neutral, but I shiver nonetheless, letting him look.
He’s so intense.
So serious.
“Are we done?” I ask him dumbly, not wanting him to say yes but knowing we have no more paint, and no more wall to fill.
“Yup.” He steps down off the ladder he barely needed. He was tall enough to reach most of the high spots.
I feel my shoulders sag.
He folds up the ladder, resting it against my dresser, and together, we begin folding up the drop cloth, tearing down the tape, and collecting the brushes.
“I’ll go put these in the sink quick so they don’t dry,” I tell him, taking the brush from his hand with a smile.
Wordlessly, he hands it to me.
“Be right back.”
I slip away, heart beating wildly as I head to the kitchen where Jill has been waiting impatiently.
“Jesus,” she hisses. “That literally took, like, forever.”
“Tell me about it,” I whisper. “And he was so polite, too. It’s starting to drive me nuts.”
“So. Nothing?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“He really is huge,” Jill whispers when I set the cup of brushes into the sink and immerse them in the running water. “I caught a glimpse of him through a crack in the door, but I didn’t want to be weird and barge in.”
“Thanks.” I laugh. “He wouldn’t have minded. He’s so nice.”
“I’m sure he’d love that if he heard you. Every guy likes to be called nice.” She rolls her eyes.
“You know what I meant.” I turn the faucet off and leave the brushes to soak.
“Yeah. I knew what you meant.” She grins cheekily. “I bet he could bench press you.”
I sigh. “I bet he could.”
She leans in, whispering conspiratorily. “What are you going to do?”
“I have no idea. This guy is stone cold.” I take a bowl of chips off the counter to bring them back to my bedroom for Brodie to snack on while we pick up the remaining mess.
“Please. He wouldn’t be here if he was indifferent. It’s not like he’s bored.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” Jill takes the bowl out of my hands. “Get back in there and flirt. And take that ponytail out of your hair.”
Jill shoves me toward my bedroom as I’m pulling the rubber band from my hair, letting it flow down my back.
Fluff it one last time before walking into my bedroom, cool as a damn cucumber, acting as if I wasn’t primping for him.
Brodie glances up.
Goes still.
He turns away from me, occupying himself with shoving the tape into a plastic garbage bag.
“Did I show you the patch job the landlord did?” I go to the closet and pull back the curtain.
Brodie puts the bag down and joins me, shoulder brushing mine as he inches forward so he too can stare at my closet wall.
I move the clothes aside so he can get a better look, and he reaches forward, running his palm over the plaster.
“Guess they did a decent enough job,” he grumbles. “I wonder if they filled the hole with something before they repaired it so Mister squirrel doesn’t try again.”
I shrug. “Guess we’ll never know.”
It’s dark in here—not so dark that I can’t see his face and we can’t see the squirrel damage—but dark enough that we’re speaking in whispers.
“How was your game last night?” I blurt out, not sure what to say now that we’re in this space. Neither of us in any rush to pull away and go back into the bedroom , where it’s bright and pink and breezy.
“Good. We won.”
I turn to face him—his shoulder, anyway—go up on my tippy-toes to reach him, and bless you, sweet baby Jesus, the man turns at the same moment I do so I can ease my hands around his neck and hug him.
“Congratulations!” I enthuse as if he’s won free Starbucks for life or gotten an A on an important exam or gone viral on social media. “I’m so happy for you!”