Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 95311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
If she were being completely, stripped to the bone honest... she wanted Elliott. She wanted him. In her bed. In her house. Going out to eat with her. Seeing crappy movies. Hosting his ludicrous business parties and then curling up on the couch afterward, shoes scattered across the floor, and talking about the guests and their ridiculousness and then falling into bed and having sweet, passionate sex.
She wanted him in ways that were not possible. That would never be possible.
As she finally felt sleep clouding the chaotic musings of her mind, she admitted that she hadn't been prepared for a man like Elliott Michaels. She had no defenses in place.
And, lastly, mom was right. Sex changes.
–
She woke up with a start, sitting up immediately, the kind of waking that happens when you lay down for a short nap and end up waking up six hours later not knowing what time, day, month, or year you are in. The sun was beaming mercilessly in the windows, making her squint and make a mental note to close the blinds when she went to bed next time.
She glanced at the pretty wrought-iron clock on the wall next to the door, a thin, intricate pattern of weeds and birds, and realized it was so late in the morning that it was almost afternoon. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, deliriously unaware of her bed-tangled hair and puffy eyes, she smelled the intoxicating scent of brewing coffee.
Stepping off the bottom stair, she thought she could hear voices but figured it was simply Sam on the phone or a radio or TV playing. Her right foot touched down on the impossibly cool kitchen tile and she froze.
Sam wasn't on the phone. There was no radio or television. There in the middle of Sam's kitchen was a woman. Hannah felt a stab of possessiveness that she pushed down immediately. Sam hadn't been hers in years.
The woman was lovely in all the soft, inhumanely delicate ways she was not. Her face was a heart, with big round vivid green eyes with thick lashes, plump cheekbones, and small cupid's-bow pink lips. Her hair was cut short, barely brushing her shoulders in a rich, chocolaty velvet color. She was petite in the way she had always admired, short but not too short, with pixie small bone structure and thinness, but with a gentle curve to her hip and breast that made you acutely aware she was definitely a woman.
She was breathtaking. And quite dirty, Hannah realized. Her black yoga pants were covered in powdery light brown dirt from ankle to knee like she had been gardening. She also had dirt caked on her hands and under her fingernails. There was even a small, charming smudge across her jawbone.
She had been talking, a quiet, feminine voice all air and honey until she looked up and spotted Hannah. She fell suddenly silent, her mouth slightly open, creating an O. Hannah felt her eyes run her up once and she was painfully aware of her nearly naked legs and braless-ness.
Hannah watched as a stream of emotions crossed the girls wholly unguarded face. Surprise, sure. Then confusion. A quick flash of distaste. Before finally settling on heavy-lidded, down turned-lip hurt.
So Sam did have something going on. With this adorable, dirt-stained slip of a girl. Now she was in his house, half nude in his kitchen and this girl was hurt. Hannah felt guilt and sympathy well up until Sam finally noticed that the girl's gaze was aimed at the doorway and he looked over.
"Oh Hannah..." he started, still smiling. Silly, oblivious male.
Hannah held up a hand, "Hold that thought, I didn't realize you had company. I'll go get dressed."
Then the girl seemed to have recovered, her face a complete mask of indifference and Hannah had a surge of sisterly comradaree. Good for you, girl. "No no," she said, waving a small, long-fingered hand, "it's alright. I was just leaving," she claimed, lying through her teeth. But she turned quickly and pulled open the French doors in a flash of angry woman.
"Annabelle..." Sam's voice trailed off as the door slammed shut.
He looked at Hannah, his eyebrows furrowed in an uncharacteristically severe way. "Go, you idiot," Hannah said, rolling her eyes and waving toward the door.
"Right," Sam said, making it to the door in two strides.
Hannah closed the door behind him watching as he took across the field with the ease only long legged people can, trying to catch up to the running figure of the lovely Annabelle who was making painfully slow progress with her small legs. Hannah felt a wave of pity. Maybe she should have told Sam to leave her alone. But no. What woman didn't want, though they might deny it until they were in the grave, to be chased by a gorgeous man and have him fix your hurt feelings? It was all so wonderfully dramatic, so disgustingly romantic.