Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Irritation flashes through me, not because he copped an eyeful, but because there’s no way he did it because he’s attracted to me. He considers me nothing more than a pain in his ass.
“Can you help get this out of my hair?” I snap, causing his neck to twist so he can look down directly at the problem.
“How the fuck did that happen?” he grouses, tilting his head left and right to see how badly I’m stuck.
“The protective screen came off,” I mutter.
“How did that happen?” he presses.
“The stupid thing wasn’t starting up and so I hit it on my palm a few times. It must have knocked it off,” I retort angrily.
Penn chuckles and it’s a surprising sound. While I don’t know anything about this modern-day Penn Navarro, he hasn’t once given me any indication he emerged from our shared trauma with his sense of humor intact. Apparently, I’m wrong.
“Penn… please get this off my head.” His eyes come to mine and while I see a bit of humor, I see a little pity.
His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yeah. Okay. Just hold still,” he commands, and then I feel a whole lot of tugging as he tries to work my hair loose.
“This thing is toast,” he mutters after fiddling for a while. “Might be easier to just cut the hair.”
“No!” I yelp, jerking away, but it’s painful and I immediately hold still.
He lifts a brow. “It’s just hair.”
I scowl. “It’s my hair and I don’t want to cut it short.”
He sighs and goes back to work. “You’d still be beautiful with short hair.”
My breath catches. He doesn’t seem to realize what he said. He’s focused on the task, but the words echo in my chest. Beautiful.
No one’s called me that in a long time.
I blink hard and whisper, “Please… just try to get it out.”
“I’m working on it. Hold still.”
The next several minutes are filled with delicate, tedious untangling. Penn sits on the closed toilet lid while I kneel in front of him, head tilted, trying not to move as he works the twisted strands free. His hands are steady and surprisingly gentle.
“Never thought I’d be detangling hair in my guest bathroom today,” he mutters.
I laugh softly. “Never thought I’d get attacked by a hair dryer in someone else’s house.”
That earns me the smallest of smirks.
We lapse into a companionable silence for a bit before I break it. “So… what have you been doing the last ten years? Other than becoming a hockey god and moving into a billionaire bunker.”
He snorts. “Not much and I’m not a billionaire yet.”
“Thanks for the clarification,” I mutter.
“Let’s see… played in the minors for less than a year, got called up, signed with Florida, then Pittsburgh. That’s the highlight reel. Nothing too exciting off the ice.”
“Come on,” I tease. “No wild escapades? Secret dog rescue hobby? Competitive sushi-eating trophies?”
His lips quirk. “I did race cars a few summers during the off-season. One of my Florida teammates got me into it.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Got second place in an amateur circuit. Scared the hell out of my coach and pissed off my life insurance carrier, so I had to quit when they threatened to drop me.”
I grin. “You’re a closet adrenaline junkie. Makes sense.”
He shrugs. “What about you? Aside from accidentally electrifying yourself?”
I giggle. “Moved to Florida, lived with my aunt. Studied graphic design, started freelancing. I do mostly book covers now. Indie romance authors are my bread and butter.”
He glances at me in the mirror. “That why you were singing Taylor Swift?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a vibe, okay?”
He chuckles and, for a moment, it’s easy. Light. Like we’re two old friends catching up instead of two people bound together by something dark and broken.
Eventually, he gives one last tug, and I feel the dryer slip free.
He holds it up triumphantly. “Got it.”
I stare at the mangled mess of my hair in the back grate and groan. “That poor dryer.”
“May it rest in pieces,” he says solemnly, tossing it into the trash.
And then, something in his gaze softens. Lingers. It’s just a moment. But I feel it.
CHAPTER 8
Penn
Mila’s eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, one hand gripping her towel and the other rubbing her scalp like she’s making sure she still has hair.
It’s awkward, as it should be.
She’s still practically naked, damp and flushed, and I can’t stop myself from dragging my gaze down her body once more. Just for a second. Just enough to feed the part of my brain that’s apparently forgotten boundaries.
“Get dressed,” I say, gruff as hell as I make my way out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the hallway. “Come downstairs. We need to talk.”
She nods, a little dazed, follows me through her room. I don’t move until the door clicks shut behind her.