Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
"I can’t believe you actually cook," she observes, her voice dropping into that soft, melodic register that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "I figured you’d be the type to eat a protein bar and call it a day."
"I love to eat," I say, keeping my eyes on the pan as I sauté the asparagus. "And I hate to eat out, so I had to learn to cook."
She looks up and smirks at me. "You should give your sister lessons." She giggles. "She could burn boiling water."
Serenity isn’t wrong. I huff out a laugh, stirring the asparagus in the skillet. “When she was twelve, she tried to bake a frozen pizza with the cardboard on it. That’s the time I taught her to use a fire extinguisher.”
Serenity actually snorts, her nose scrunching the way it does when she’s really amused. “At least you know when dinner’s ready when she cooks.” She glances at me, and we both say at the same time, “When the smoke alarm goes off.”
Fuck, I love it when she laughs. I want to hear that sound again and again, preferably from under me and out of breath, but I keep that thought to myself. Barely.
Now isn’t the time. First, I need to make sure Kirk Fucking Voss is dealt with. Then I can concentrate on making Serenity mine.
CHAPTER SIX
SERENITY
The sky over the Nevada desert doesn't just darken; it bruises, turning a deep, angry purple that feels heavy enough to crush the house. Late Sunday evening, I'm standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows in Diesel’s living room, watching the first jagged streaks of lightning tear through the clouds. It’s spectacular and terrifying. There’s nothing quite like desert storms.
A crack of thunder follows so quickly it vibrates in my marrow, and then, with a sound like a dying sigh, the lights flicker once and vanish. The hum of the air conditioning cuts out, leaving a silence so thick it feels like a physical weight.
“Don’t move,” Diesel’s voice rumbles through the dark. It’s low, steady, and exactly the anchor I need. “I have a stash of candles in the pantry.”
“I’m not moving,” I say, as my eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden darkness.
A few moments later, a small flame sparks to life, illuminating the sharp planes of his face and the dark, focused intensity of his eyes.
“Power’s out for the whole block,” he says, setting a thick white candle on the coffee table. He lights three more, and the living room transforms into a sanctuary of dancing shadows and amber light. “Storm must have taken out a transformer nearby.”
“So much for the movie marathon.” I sigh, gesturing to the now-useless sixty-inch television. “I was really looking forward to seeing if the new horror movie Alana told me about is really scary enough to keep me awake at night.”
“I don’t know how we’ll survive the disappointment,” he says, his mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a worn deck of cards. “Ever played Rummy?”
“Diesel, I’m an accounting major,” I say, sliding onto the rug on the opposite side of the coffee table. “Numbers are my love language. I will absolutely destroy you.”
“Is that right?” He sinks to the floor, his massive frame making the space feel suddenly intimate. He deals the cards with a practiced flick of his wrist, his large, tattooed hands moving with surprising grace. “Bold talk for someone currently hiding behind my couch.”
“I am not hiding,” I counter, picking up my hand. “I’m strategically placed for maximum safety. There’s a difference.”
We play in the soft, flickering glow, the rain lashing against the glass in a rhythmic assault. It should be stressful being trapped in the dark while a stalker is still out there somewhere. But with Diesel sitting two feet away, smelling of cedar and worn leather, I feel an inexplicable sense of peace. The hyperawareness I usually feel around him has shifted from a sharp, nervous edge to a warm, humming thrum.
“You’re good at this,” he observes, discarding a jack. “Too good. You have a poker face that rivals the best players.”
“I used to play with my Grams,” I say, my focus dropping to the cards as a bit of the truth slips out. “My parents weren’t ever around. They pretty much let my grandmother raise me.”
Diesel pauses, his hand hovering over the draw pile. He looks at me, really looks at me, in a way that makes me feel like he’s reading the fine print of my soul. “Well, she did a stellar fucking job.”
His words warm my soul. The flickering flame lights the room enough for me to stare into his eyes. “You did a great job with Alana,” I tell him. His whole body stills, and for a second, I think maybe I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But in the candlelight, I see the shock flash in his eyes before it smooths out into something heavier.