Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
It’s important to Briar, too, but she doesn’t say that. She doesn’t have to. I can see it on her face, can feel it in the set of her shoulders.
“I’m not going anywhere, unless you tell me to. And even then”—I put a doubtful look on my face—“I’m a bit harder to get rid of than that. My family calls me persistent. Pretty sure it’s pure pigheadedness, though.” I say it as though it’s the compliment that I consider it to be. My refusal to be put off easily is what made me the athlete I am, and also, what’s made me the man I am.
I get up from the table, taking my plate and grabbing hers and Harley’s too. I dump the bread end that Harley left into the trash and then start rinsing the dishes for the dishwasher.
“What are you doing?”
I glance over my shoulder, realizing that Briar has stood up from the table and is staring at me like I’m an alien. “Washing the dishes?” I say, confused by her confusion.
“Why?”
I blink, looking around for some context clues about why she’s asking why I’m doing dishes when they obviously need to be done. “Because we ate on them?” I say hesitantly.
“You’re just doing the dishes,” she replies, making it sound like I’m doing something remarkable.
“Yeah, you cooked, I’m cleaning up. It’s the least I can do.”
My words register in my own head as I say them and I realize why she’s reacting so oddly. She does everything. She does it all on her own, and she always has. I’d bet that even when she was married, Tyler never lifted a finger.
Giving her a pointed look, I say plainly, “This is literally the bare minimum.” The reminder of our previous conversation is clear. “This isn’t special and I don’t need you to mother me. Save that for Harley. I cook for myself, clean my own place, and am an entirely functional adult.” I chuckle as I say it, surprised those are actual points in my favor.
“You have no idea how attractive that is,” she admits, letting out a tiny laugh as she props her chin on her hand and stares at me in awe.
“You can say it . . . you think I’m sexy,” I tease, shooting her an exaggerated wink. To prove my point, I dramatically scrub the plate in my hand, making ooh and aah faces to make it seem downright sexual. She laughs at my antics, but that adorable pink rushes to her cheeks.
As she gets up, bringing our glasses to the sink, I tell her, “I also remember birthdays, will buy you flowers, and open every door for you. Though that’s not because I’m nice, it’s because I want to see your ass as often as possible.” I grin wolfishly as I lean back from the sink to peer at said curves. “Who knew those damn khaki shorts would do it for me. Give me a spin.”
She laughs nervously, but with her eyes locked on me, she does a slow turn, giving me a better view. I groan in appreciation. “Fuck, Briar.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, pushing on my arm. Her touch sears me, and I want to kill the asshole who ever made her doubt her beauty, her sexiness, her spirit, her amazingness. She thinks I’m kidding, and maybe cargo shorts wouldn’t be hot on anyone else, but on Briar, anything she wears, anything she does, everything she says, it’s all catnip to me. And I’m addicted.
As I scrub the spaghetti pot, she watches me. “I used to want Tyler to do the dishes—I’d even flat-out ask him to—but he never did. It was all me. And now you’re doing things like helping me at work, eating dinner with us, and cleaning up like it’s nothing. You don’t even think it matters, but it does. So much.”
“If it means more time with you, a smile on your face, a lighter load on your shoulders,” I tell her honestly, my sponge swirling to get out a stubborn spot of stuck-on tomato, “I’m happy to help.”
“It’s hard to let you,” she blurts out.
“Let me do the dishes?” I set the scrubber down in the sink and turn off the water. Drying my hands on a towel, I turn to lean against the counter, giving her my full attention. Her eyes fall to the floor, where the toe of her boot is sweeping back and forth nervously. “Can you explain that?”
She’s quiet for a long minute. So long that I think she’s not going to answer, but I wait. I stand there, still as a statue, putting no pressure on her, but hopefully, reassuring her with my presence. She’s skittish—a by-product of her ex, I’m sure—and I don’t want to do anything that’ll trigger her, especially when we’ve had such a great day and I feel like I can see daylight through the tiny crack she’s peeking through.