Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
He grabs it, then kisses the tip. “I’ll protect you, I promise.”
I grin with pride, already aware that I’m in safe hands when it comes to us. If only he could protect me from the life I’m avoiding. “I’m holding you to it.” Hope blooms as if it had been on standby waiting for him, hope that had been long buried years prior is renewed, and comfort flows through me as I stare into the warmth of his eyes. If only I’d met him before instead of when I’d run out of time.
I move out of his arms, though that’s the last thing I want to do, and start gathering the glasses. It will get us out of here sooner, before momentum is lost in the wee hours we’re operating under. And I return to being a dutiful daughter tomorrow.
Keats crosses his arms over his chest and peers out the window. With his gaze lengthening, he says, “I don’t know how we’re even standing at this point. Do you know what time it is?”
“I don’t want to know because I’ll get tired.” Walking into the kitchen, I say, “I think at this stage, we’re powered by ramen and adrenaline.”
“Attraction helps.” His words are as light as his tone, stating facts. The physical attraction is undeniable, but the chemistry with him, the comfort in my own skin, has me realizing he doesn’t make me feel small in his presence despite the size difference. I cling to that tidbit that means more to me than he’ll ever know.
I wash one glass and set it on the counter. When I reach for the other, it slips from my soapy hand and shatters in the sink. “Shit.”
Rushing over, he takes me by the wrist to investigate the wound as if it’s life-threatening. Turning on the water, he dips my hand under it and says, “You’re bleeding.”
“Is that the official diagnosis, Doctor?”
He chuckles. “I think you’ll live, but we might have to amputate if you keep bleeding like this.” The water runs clear, bringing a smile to his face. “Saved in the nick of time.” Bringing the wound that I can’t even see to his mouth, he kisses it.
Playing along, I wiggle my finger. “It feels better already.”
His gaze shifts to mine. “Glad I could save the digit.”
I laugh. “Oh geez, I think I’ve created a monster.”
He grabs a towel and gently dries my hand before wrapping it around it tightly. “Hold it up, like this.” When his eyes return to mine, he’s still holding my wrist and asks, “Do you trust me, Spark?” The question mirrors one I asked him earlier.
“With my life.” My response comes just as swiftly as his did.
Caressing my cheek, he runs his thumb over the apple of it several times, then kisses my temple. “Good.” Shifting me by the waist to the side of the sink, he adds, “You take care of your hand. I’ll clean the glass up.”
My heart clenches between each heavy thump in my chest. The secrets I thought I could never confess out loud rush through my veins, ready to escape. As trust builds between us, I don’t want to dance around my feelings or hide them from him. Keats makes me want to be who I am and inspires me to have the courage to do so. I lean against the counter, gripping it with my free hand behind me. “Do you want to know what I fear most?”
“Snakes? God, I hate snakes.” He glances at me with a boyish grin. Why does he have to make it so hard to look away from him? “I was joking. Well, not about the snakes but—ugh, I’m fucking up here. Save me, Spark.”
“You’re not fucking up at all.” My voice is so quiet that he looks at me. “Quite the opposite.”
With a handful of glass, he briefly glances at me. “I want to know everything about you.” And there’s that charm again, dragging me into his light.
His honesty is a habit I could get used to. I open the cabinet for the trash, swallowing hard as I struggle to find his flaws. Taking a deep breath, I say it before I can stop myself. “I fear living my life like a trinket on display in someone’s old French vitrine. I don’t want to be tucked away like a trophy and forgotten. The loneliness would be too much.”
He dusts his hands and then stands up in front of me. His towering frame isn’t intimidating, but I don’t like that the line between his brows has deepened. His mouth is harder with his lips pressed together. He glances down at the trash can between us, and that’s when I notice the tic of his jaw. Did I screw up by saying too much? Too soon? Should I have kept my mouth shut?