Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Sitting up, I rub my hands over my face and glance out the window. It’s still dark, still the middle of the night here. But I climb out of bed and do my business in the bathroom, then pull my hair back into a braid and get dressed.
I snagged some old running shoes from my closet, thank goodness, and I slide them on and wrinkle my nose. Ugh, they’re not great. I must have run four hundred miles in these.
Please let deliveries happen soon.
I silently open the door of the bedroom and poke my head out. The house is still, but there are little night-lights along the wall that come on when you walk past, illuminating my way down the stairs. Finding the kitchen is easy enough, since it’s open to the huge living area and dining space. The house is obviously newer, or recently remodeled. I expected a lot of dark wood and heavy leather furniture, but that’s not how Gideon decorated his space.
It’s airy, with light wood floors and big windows. The furniture looks comfortable, with camel-colored leather. There’s even a wall of bookshelves.
I’m dying to see what the view is beyond those windows. I bet it’s beautiful.
We are in Montana.
I’ve been to this state before, when my mom was on the campaign trail, but never really got to enjoy it. We would fly into a city, I’d listen to her give a speech and we would smile for the cameras as a family, and then we were back on another plane.
So I’m excited to actually enjoy being here. I already like the peace and quiet.
After walking to the coffee maker, I find the coffee pods and slip one in, then locate a mug and brew my first cup of mountain coffee.
I may not like the reasons for being here, and Gideon made it perfectly clear that he’d like me to be literally anywhere else, but it already feels good.
Aside from these horrible shoes.
Once my mug is full, I lift it to my lips and take a sip and then sigh in happiness.
“You drink it black?”
“Holy fuck.” I gasp and jerk, spilling a little over the side, scorching my hand, and before I can move, Gideon’s beside me, his hand gripping my wrist, yanking me to the kitchen sink, where he turns on the tap and holds my hand under it. “I’m fine.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, his voice gruff.
“It’s okay.”
Every time he’s close to me like this, my body hums and my nipples pucker, which he’ll be able to see through this T-shirt from five years ago that hugs my girls just a little too tight, and I really wish he’d stop touching me. I don’t want to make a fool out of myself.
“Really, it’s okay.”
I tug free of his hold and reach for the towel to dry my hand.
“You’re up early,” he says and walks over to brew his own mug.
“It’s almost six thirty where I came from.” I sip my coffee before I steel myself to turn around and look at him, and then my eyes go wide, and I’m pretty sure my stomach is full of angry hornets because holy Christ on a cracker.
I’ve never seen him like this.
I know I’m staring, but I can’t stop.
He’s in black cargo pants, black boots, and a black T-shirt that molds to his torso and arms. Fucking hell, he’s built. He’s all muscle. There isn’t an ounce of fat on him.
No dad bod here.
And he looks like he’s ready to go to war and kick some serious ass.
Down, hormones.
I knew he had tattoos because he used to run with me back when he was my lead detail guy. But shit, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, and it’s like a punch in the gut because he’s way hotter than I remembered.
And the abs.
His shirt hugs his stomach, and every molecule in my hands itches to touch him.
So I press them behind me against the countertop and lift my eyes to his face, only to find him smirking at me.
“You done?” he asks.
“I’ve never seen you out of a suit.” I’m impressed that my mouth remembers how to speak because my brain is misfiring.
“Not true. We used to jog every morning, Rebel.”
Rebel?
I didn’t think he’d remember our morning jogs, but of course he’s calling me out on my little lie.
“I’m going to make us breakfast before we head out,” he says.
“Oh, coffee’s fine for me.”
“No, it isn’t.” He shakes his head and opens the fridge, starts pulling out eggs and veggies and even some cheese.
I miss cheese.
“I can’t do dairy,” I tell him softly, and he raises an eyebrow. “It kills my stomach.”
He nods and keeps working, so I sit on a stool on the other side of the island to watch as he scrambles eggs and chops the onions, mushrooms, and peppers. His hand looks so big on the handle of the knife, it makes me swallow hard.