Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
He half-smiles as he contemplates my request. I’m surprised he doesn’t just redirect me without answering.
Progress.
“The truth?” he asks. “I can’t be trusted to take care of another human. I’d be afraid to get a fucking dog.”
“But you’d want a dog, right?”
“I’d love a dog. A black lab, actually. But I’d forget to feed it. I forget to feed myself half of the fucking time.”
I grin. “You do realize that you’d be dating another human being that can feed herself, right?”
He knocks my knee with his. “You know what I mean.”
I do. I know what he means. And I think I know a little more than that.
Pushing him on this is risky, but he’s so cooperative and he responded so well—surprisingly well—to being my guy. So maybe I risk it …
“You know what I think?” I ask.
“I think you’re going to tell me.”
“I think, silly boy, that you have trust issues.”
He makes a face like I’m stupid and reaches for his pizza. Steam still rises from it in steady puffs, but he fills his mouth anyway.
“I think,” I continue, picking my words carefully, “that you think that you can only trust your friends. I can’t remember their names. Sorry.”
“River and Crew.”
“Yes. Them.”
I turn on the couch so I’m facing him. I hesitate, drawing one knee to my chest.
He continues to chew, but he doesn’t look away, and I have to wonder if he wants me to press him. If not, wouldn’t he change the subject?
“I think you sell yourself short,” I tell him.
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” I say, smiling at him. I think back to what he’s said about his mom and Philip and Kim. “I think … I think you think that people always give up on you.”
His eyes go wary. “That’s a lot of thinking.”
“It is, huh?”
Holding my breath, I wait for him to respond. He sets his plate down and grabs his glass of water. He takes an intentionally long drink.
He swallows and sets the glass next to the plate.
“You wanna know what I think?” he asks.
Suddenly, I’m nervous.
“No,” I say.
“Ah, the pretty girl doesn’t like it when the script is turned on her, does she?” He settles against the couch. “It’s not fun, huh?”
I shake my head and wonder where he’s going with this. “No, but I respect that you want to get to know me better.”
He makes a face. “I already know this. I’m telling you.”
“Oh.”
He laughs. “I think you pick guys that you think won’t work out, so you don’t have to settle down.”
“What? You’re crazy,” I say. “You’re wrong. So wrong.”
He doesn’t laugh. He just sits still and watches me.
I squirm under his gaze. “What?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Yes. You’re wrong.”
He shrugs.
His refusal to elaborate is killing me.
That’s not what I do. Not at all.
He’s crazy.
“One of us is good at this and that one of us isn’t you,” I say, picking up my plate.
“Why else would a smart woman like you pick someone like Sebastian? Or me,” he adds. “It doesn’t make sense. The only thing it can be is that you know both of us are fuck-ups. You’ll have an out if you want it. You just have to wait for it.”
“Or,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat, “I pick a certain type of guy and it’s not a good match for me. I can’t help what I’m attracted to.”
He takes my plate out of my hands and sets it on the table.
“I wasn’t done,” I tell him.
When he faces me again, he’s grinning. “Did you just admit you’re attracted to me?”
“Well, like that’s new news.”
He’s satisfied. “I really like this you today. I just want to make that clear.”
I lean back on the couch and gaze up at him. “I really like the playful you today. Just to be clear.”
“We better figure out what put us in such a good mood.”
“Oh, I already know what it was,” I tease.
He quirks a brow. “You do?”
“Uh-huh. It was all the … talking.”
His face falls. “I thought it was the sex.”
“Close second.”
“Damn.”
His eyes hood as he takes me in. He stands up and hovers over me.
“There is one thing you could do to make the sex be number one,” I tell him.
“What’s that?”
“Show me those abs, baby.”
He bursts out laughing. Animation sweeps across his face, and it makes me laugh too.
“If you insist …” He shrugs off his flannel.
And then, inch by inch in a Magic Mike-esque move, he peels his T-shirt off in the slowest way possible.
With each inch it rises up his tanned midsection, a new block of muscle is exposed. The lines are defined and appear to have been crafted by the hand of God. The muscles lining his side are just as clear, and the higher up his shirt goes, the broader his body gets.
My eyes widen, and I let them. I don’t even pretend not to be impressed. Downplaying something that was clearly chiseled by an angel seems like a disgrace.