Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
I lift my chin. How’s that for brilliant? Plenty of guys do yoga. But I’m guessing a bodyguard isn’t the yoga type. Banks’s muscles will probably atrophy if he doesn’t find a weight bench soon to recharge his muscle cells. A man like him survives on protein powder and weight plates, not sun salutations and shavasanas.
“Sounds great. I’ll drive,” he says.
“Actually, we can walk,” I say, cheery and upbeat—all part of the plan.
“That works too,” he says. “Meet you in…?”
“Fifteen minutes,” I supply, then bound up the steps before a smidge of guilt hits me again. He’s really going to hate me soon. Might as well just clear the air for the sake of doing the right thing. I spin around. “Banks?”
He turns around. “Yes?”
My chest twinges. Or maybe that’s my pride acting up. Either way, I meet his gaze straight on, and I woman up. “SorryIsaidyou’renotmytype. Thatwasn’tnice.”
There. Done.
But he stares at me, brow furrowed, confused. “Excuse me?”
Did I really say it that quickly? I draw a breath, square my shoulders, then try again. Slower this time. Or really, normal speed. “Sorry I said you’re not my type. That wasn’t nice.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding. “I thought that’s what you said, but I wanted to be sure.”
My jaw drops. “You knew and made me repeat it?”
“It’s good to be certain, right?”
“And you want me to trust you?”
“I need to trust my ears, Ripley,” he says with a smile. “But don’t think twice about it. We’re all good.”
“Good.”
I turn to open the door when he adds, “Besides, I knew you didn’t mean it.”
This man. I seethe. I have no regrets for what I’m about to do.
Five minutes later, I’m out the door again, grabbing my bike from where I left it by the fence and hopping on.
Let him run after me. I don’t care. Let him take his freaking car. That’s fine too.
I fly down the hill on two wheels, lift my left hand to show I’m turning right, then turn, when the sound of tires against asphalt grows louder. I peek behind me and groan. “Are you kidding me?”
Banks is wearing a black helmet and riding a mint-green beach cruiser, and in seconds he’s pedaling by my side. “I figured it’d just be easier if I got one too,” he says, calm and too amused for my taste. “Don’t you think?”
“Where did you get a bike?” I ask, annoyed and impressed at the same time. But then it hits me. When I had dinner last night and he went to run errands, he must have gone into town, or to a nearby town, to pick one up. “Forget it. I don’t even want to know.”
“Too bad mint was the only color,” he says, glancing briefly down at the pretty frame. “I’d have preferred we have matching bikes. But the shop didn’t have a purple one.”
“Such a shame,” I mutter as I slow at the upcoming stop sign.
“But hold on. One more thing,” he says.
At the sign, I set my feet down on the road. He reaches into the basket on his handlebars and retrieves another helmet. “You really should wear one of these things.”
He leans across the space between us and sets the most adorable pink helmet on my head. “I usually wear one,” I grumble.
“I’m sure you do, sweetheart. But, like I said, it’s my job to keep you safe.”
His midnight eyes stay on me as he adjusts the pink helmet, then tucks some loose strands of hair behind my ear, his finger whisking over the shell.
His touch lasts a little longer than I’d expect.
His fingers slide along my jawline, then he snaps the buckle under my chin. He takes a beat, then fiddles with it some more, moving it just so.
Then just so again. His breath hitches. Quietly, but I hear it. A quick, sharp intake.
When he lifts his face, he meets my eyes, and I see that same dark desire from the night we met. Raw. Primal. A flash of heat too.
“There. How’s that?” His voice is lower than before, raspier.
Holy shit.
He meant everything he said then. He was into me. And now, all this proximity is as hard for him as it is for me.
Guess I am his type.
“It’s good,” I say, answering him at last, even though it’s not good. It’s bad, how dangerously attracted I am to my bodyguard. Especially since he keeps up with me the whole way to the Downward Dog All Day yoga studio.
After we lock up the bikes on a rack and go inside, a pink-haired woman behind the check-in counter says to me, “Ripley, you’re finally taking a class.”
I wince and paste on a smile.
Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea to play chicken here. Since I’ve never done yoga before.
15
UPSIDE DOWN
BANKS
Bet she thinks I don’t know my utkatasana from my uttanasana.