Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Perhaps I have a body chemical imbalance leading me to believe that Reginald’s ex-girlfriend, and now present employee, is attractive.
Or maybe I just have eyes.
“Sure,” I groan.
Her brow creases in concern. “Are you okay? That didn’t sound good. I’m used to holding my breath under there, but did you take some water in? I’ve heard of this thing called secondary drowning, where if you inhale water, it can be a big problem. Are you in pain? Do you feel lightheaded? How’s your breathing?”
“I’m good,” I assure her tightly.
“Why are you all folded up like that?”
“Oh, uh…just some indigestion. I had cabbage rolls for breakfast.”
She looks at me like I just told her that I consumed moon cheese. “I’ll rummage through the medicine cabinet and have an antacid waiting for you with lunch. I promise I’ll keep it bland. As long as you’re sure you didn’t take in half the pool.”
“I swim every day. I enjoy it. I’m fine. It’s just…some gas.”
“Okay,” she practically sings. “One bland lunch and some meds for your poor tummy coming right up.”
She skips off into the house, letting herself in through the sliding door. I sit for another minute, stewing in my humiliation. Great. Now, on top of what Amalphia might already think of me, she’s going to assume I smell like farts and have a cabbage intolerance. I mean, doesn’t everyone though? Cabbage is serious business. Delicious, but deadly.
I know exactly what will fix me right up, and it’s not an antacid I don’t even need.
It’s a cold shower.
Extra cold. Forcefully cold.
And a vow to get my head in order, which I’m going to force the rest of me to take seriously.
Chapter five
Amalphia
It’s taking Warrick an unusually long time to get changed. It also took him an eternity to get out of the pool.
I noticed the way his eyes lingered on my body longer than they should. He’s a man. He wasn’t checking me out because he wanted to check me out. I was just a body, a wet body, and we were both in each other’s line of sight. It was like a rhetorical question. A rhetorical gaze. It didn’t get me all hot and bothered or anything.
Fuck, I’m such a bad liar.
I’m still feeling the shape of his huge, strong hands as they grasped my hips and scraped along my breast on the way to my shoulder while he propelled me off the bottom of the pool.
I had no idea what was happening. My eyes were closed, and I was focused entirely on my breathing exercises. I know what I was doing was dangerous, but I’ve been working at it for over a year already. If there was one thing I didn’t doubt about this whole arrangement, it was the pool. I love swimming. I’ve always had to do it at a community pool, which involved swimming underwater so that I didn’t get the lifeguards hauling my ass out, thinking I was drowning, just like Warrick did.
My skin erupts into a fucking bonfire when I think about where his hands grazed me.
I’m putting together sandwiches with organic tomatoes, toasted garlic and onion specialty pickles, roasted red peppers, fresh basil, cheese from a block that proudly declares it’s been aged three years, and thick-cut back bacon, but I’m having trouble focusing.
The kitchen is so vast and empty that my knife echoes with every chop on the wooden cutting board.
Chop. Chop. I wonder if Warrick couldn’t get out of the pool because his body was burning too. Because he had issues down under. Chop. Chop. Stop it. You can’t go there. Chop. Chop. The dick department is not a store your mind should be shopping at. Chop. Chop.
Chop, chop, boom, boom, boom.
Warrick’s heavy tread echoes down the metal and glass staircase.
Great. There’s zero chance I can compose my face. I’m probably ten shades past red.
You know what’s even more attractive than wet, waterlogged Warrick in a pool with all his clothes slicked tight and outlining every muscle in his body? Freshly showered Warrick in a T-shirt that shows off the black and grey ink on his arms as well as all his numerous bulgy muscles and veiny veins. His jeans are faded and soft-looking, so I quickly keep going and get to his footwear. The tan loafers should scream Dad, but all they’re doing is taunting, DILF, DILF, DILF. Loudly.
It could be that I have a problem.
It could be that the problem is Warrick is hotter than fucking fuckitty fucknuts. Maybe I’m just fucking fuckitty fucknutted.
I wonder if there are groups out there dedicated to not having sexual thoughts about your ex’s parents. Dadaholics Anonymous or something.
“That looks good,” he says, his voice a little gruffer and deeper than normal.
I clear my throat, whipping my eyes back to the sandwiches. “Yeah, uh…yeah.” Nice. I’ve spent over a week here by myself, and this is what I have to say?