Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
I hated the gym, but boy, did I love the wardrobe.
Based on the way Devon could not tear his gaze away as he spoke into the phone, I ventured to say he loved it too. “We knew this was bound to happen. Just wish she’d had some say here.” He paused, giving me another heated once-over. “She’s good. Actually, she just got here. Let me go brief her, and I’ll hit you back if anything changes.”
He ended the call, shoving his phone into his back pocket.
Hope spiraled in my chest. “Did they catch the guy?”
“No.”
My shoulders sagged. “Damn.”
He closed the distance between us, reaching for the plate in my hand. He plucked a strawberry from the top and popped it into his mouth, his head falling back with a deep moan. “Fucking delicious, and now I gotta ruin it.”
Oh shit. That didn’t sound good.
“Ruin what?” I asked.
I followed him as he carried the plate to the small fridge in the feed room, slid it inside, and then took the coffee mug from my hand. He didn’t take a sip before setting it aside.
Yep. Definitely not good.
“Devon?” I prompted, nerves finally getting the best of me. I barely got his name out before he was on me.
But not in a good way—at least not completely.
His hands landed on my hips as he lifted me like I weighed nothing, setting me on top of the counter beside the fridge. The wood creaked faintly beneath me, but I barely registered it as he stepped in close.
My breath hitched, the air becoming thick. He braced his hands on either side of my thighs, caging me in without actually touching me, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle. “All right, I gotta talk to you about some shit, but first, what’s going on with you?”
“Wh…what do you mean?” I stammered, drunk on his proximity.
“That fucker get in your head?”
“Huh?”
“Sebastian,” he clarified, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse. “He talked some shit about your overalls yesterday, and now you prance in here looking like the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition branched into athletic wear. So, I’ll repeat, did that fucker get into your head?”
Okay, so that was sweet-ish.
But also dick-ish.
I focused on the former.
I scoffed. “No. I just felt like doing my hair today.”
He twisted his lips, disbelief written all over his face. “And makeup?”
“And makeup,” I agreed.
“When’s the last time you wore that outfit?”
I clamped my mouth shut. It had, in fact, been for a Vogue photoshoot, but that was none of his business. “I don’t see how that matters.”
“Mmhm,” he hummed. “Don’t bullshit me. You usually roll out here in pajama pants without even pulling a brush through your hair. Something’s up, and if you don’t want to talk about it, fine. But if that piece of shit got in your head making you feel anything less than stunning in a pair of overalls, it’s because he got one look at you and realized exactly what he lost.” He planted his hands on his hips. “That’s on him, babe. Not you.”
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Seventeen times.
Dear God, that was all sweet. No ish about it.
Though he had completely missed the mark.
Devon was always so astute and hyperaware. Nothing got past him.
Except for the part where I’d gotten dressed for him that morning.
He stared at me expectantly, stone-cold serious, but it was all I could do not to laugh.
How was it possible for the six-foot-four definition of tall, dark, and handsome to be so oblivious?
But sweet baby Jesus in a manger, it was hot.
Him calling me “babe” had only turned up the temperature.
Unable to help myself, I rested my hand on his chest.
His face remained utterly blank, but the speed of his heart beneath my palm gave him away.
Feeling brave—and seriously turned on—I traced my thumb back and forth over the ridge of his pec. “Sebastian has no space in my head anymore. I appreciate your concern. Truly. But I just wanted to feel pretty this morning. That’s all.”
He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine. I didn’t know what was going on inside that man’s sexy head, but his jaw ticked like he was waging a full-blown war.
“Dev—”
“You don’t have to try to be pretty, Lofton. You were fucking gorgeous in the overalls. And in the pajama pants. And in every other article of clothing that has ever touched your body.”
I drew in a sharp breath.
It wasn’t a novelty for someone to tell me I was beautiful. I worked in a business where beauty and success often went hand in hand. And yet, to have Devon drop his guard and allow even a second of vulnerability—it felt like the world’s highest praise.
“Devon,” I whispered, inching forward, physically aching for him to touch me. To hold me. To show me exactly how gorgeous he thought I was.