Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
“Wow,” I say, blinking at him. “I don't even know where to go with that caveman logic.”
“Caveman?” He's amused now, leaning into the insult like it fits.
“Yeah, you know. The whole 'women should never leave the house without a male chaperone' attitude, instead of the more logical 'men should stop assaulting women'.”
He shrugs, opening the fridge and pulling out a carton of milk and some orange juice. “Some men are assholes.”
“That doesn't make it okay.”
“No,” he agrees, setting the cartons on the counter. “But some of us know how to make breakfast.”
It's infuriating how quickly the scent of that brewing pot softens the edge of my irritation.
I'm still bristling, still wound too tight, but I can't help it. My stomach growls, loud and unapologetic.
With his back to me, Nixon is all hard lines and powerful muscles. Broad shoulders stretch his flannel shirt, and his jeans hug his hips and thighs like a second skin. I hate how attractive he is, especially when he's being a condescending jack ass.
“So, what can I get you?” he asks over his shoulder, catching me staring. “We usually start the day with something meaty.”
The memory of the giant wolf-dog from last night flashes in my mind. All muscle and fur and sharp, tearing teeth.
“I'll take toast,” I say quickly. “Plain is fine.”
He glances at me, one brow lifting.
“Toast,” I repeat. “Safe. Familiar. Not likely to have once walked on four legs.”
Nixon scoffs. “Actually, leave it to me. You don't seem capable of making a sensible decision about anything.”
My jaw tics. Of course, he's ignoring me again, like my words are blood whistling through his ear. Maybe it's my 'weak girly voice' that fails to pierce his thick lumberjack skull.
“Toast,” I say through clenched teeth, “is what I want.”
He barely glances my way. “Wait until you've tried this bacon,” he says, pulling a massive pack of streaky meat from the fridge like it's the Holy Grail. He grabs a skillet, sets it on the stove, and unwraps the plastic.
“But I said I want toast.”
The back door creaks open. Finn strolls in, shirtless, his hair a tousled mess and his eyes still fogged from sleep. He looks like he's rolled out of bed and directly into a Calvin Klein ad.
“Well,” he drawls, grinning. “This is a better view than I usually wake up to.”
His voice is pure sunshine and mischief, and it only makes Nixon look more storm-cloud grumpy in comparison.
“Do you think you can explain to this stubborn man that I want toast? Not bacon. Not sausage. Not anything else he thinks I might want. Just two pieces of bread, charred and buttered.”
Finn chuckles and shoots Nixon a look I can't quite decipher. I suddenly feel foolish, like a guest who's overstayed her welcome and is now complaining about the color of the curtains.
“I'm not ungrateful,” I add, softer this time. “I… I don't like being bulldozed.”
Finn raises his hands, trying to smooth the tension. “How about coffee? That usually makes things better.”
“Coffee would be amazing,” I say with a sigh. “And then, a ride back into town.”
Another look passes between the brothers, subtle but loaded. I catch it, even if I don't fully understand it. I decide not to push. One emotional outburst per breakfast is enough.
“So, what do you do?” Finn asks, filling a mug and handing it to me with a smile that's almost too genuine to be real.
“I make furniture,” I say, taking a grateful sip. It's strong and hot, with the right bitterness. “I'm in town to source some premium wood for a client commission.”
At that, Finn's brows rise, and he gives Nixon another quick glance.
“Well, if Braysville is good for anything, it's lumber,” Finn says.
“And if Finn's good for anything,” Nixon chimes in without looking up, “it's furniture.”
“You make furniture, too?”
“Pretty much everything in this house has been crafted by my brother,” Nixon says, sliding two slices of bread into the toaster at last. “The coffee table, the kitchen stools, the bed…”
“Really? You made the coffee table... and the bed that I slept in?”
He runs a hand through his hair, cheeks going adorably pink. “Yeah. It's kind of a hobby.”
A hobby? That bed was a work of art.
“You're seriously talented,” I say, leaning in despite myself. “Do you sell your work?”
“He does it for fun,” Nixon says before Finn can answer. “We're too busy running our lumber business to start taking custom orders.”
“You have a lumber business?” I ask, stunned. “Why didn't you say something?”
Nixon lifts an eyebrow. “You didn't exactly give me space to get a word in last night.”
Fair. But also? Rude.
I ignore him and focus on Finn, who clearly wants to say more. “You should think about selling your stuff. I know a few clients who'd jump at the chance to own pieces like yours. And I could help with marketing, exposure, and selling online. I take a percentage, of course, but the profit would be all yours.”