Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66861 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
That worked too. He’d be focusing on not cutting himself, so I’d be able to stare at him without getting caught. I shook my head as he turned on the faucet and wet the razor. Yesterday I’d told him I was bored, and today he’d provided an experience that was anything but boring.
I didn’t know how well I kept up my side of the conversation, but after I finally stopped drooling, I had to admit it was nice being up here. First off, it was a change of setting, which was definitely welcome. But it also felt surprisingly intimate. Talking to a man while he was shaving—that was the kind of thing a wife or girlfriend did.
Spencer didn’t seem at all self-conscious at being shirtless. But after he’d finished shaving and dried his face, he got the rest of the way dressed. He faced me as he pulled on an undershirt and then buttoned up a dress shirt. I managed not to stare until he tied his tie. “I don’t know how you men do that.”
He shrugged. “It’s not that hard.” Then he chuckled. “Hard is pretending to like the pink and yellow tie your kids picked out for Father’s Day.”
That made me grin, even though with every passing second, he was covering up more and more of that gorgeous tan skin. He sat next to me as he put on his black shoes. “Ready for breakfast?”
All we ate was cereal, but it was nice to have something that didn’t burn like hellfire. And it was pleasant just to talk to him. Again, it felt… homey. And domestic. Like something couples who lived together did, which was quite foreign to me.
I’d never lived with a man. Well, actually, I was living with two now. But I’d never lived with a man I was in a relationship with.
An hour later, I sat on my bed waiting for Raphael. He was upstairs in the small office he and Spencer shared. I hadn’t actually gotten a tour of the top floor today, but I knew it only consisted of Spencer’s bedroom and bathroom, the office, and a closet. It wasn’t as big as the first floor.
Curious about Raphael’s other job, I looked him up online as I waited. He hadn’t talked much about his technical writing. To my surprise, I found a very professional website with information about his work, his clients, and his rates.
Had he made the website, or hired someone? Either way, it was impressive. There was a long list of articles he’d written, and they ranged from training manuals to information about health procedures to more obscure topics, like a certain type of parasite that was attacking local trees.
Then the man himself appeared. He had on gym shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, so he was definitely in training mode, not writing mode. He even had free weights with him, though they were small ones that were obviously not meant for someone with his strength.
He led me through a series of arm exercises first. They were ones that the physical therapist had mentioned yesterday, but Raphael knew what they were for, which muscles they worked, and exactly how to do them. “Inhale when you lower the weight,” he instructed. “Yes, like that. Do four more.”
He was awfully picky about the movements, but at least he only made me hold a weight with my good arm. I still had to move the one I’d sprained, though.
I did the arm exercises while sitting on the side of the bed, because otherwise I would’ve had to balance on one leg. When it was time for leg exercises, Raphael had me lie on my back on the bed.
He sat at the foot of the bed. “Now remember, don’t try to move your bad leg at all.” Pausing, he looked around. Then he folded up a quilt and covered my cast. “There. That’s to remind you not to move it.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” I asked him. “The exercises, I mean.”
“Sports medicine interests me.”
“Everything interests you,” I said, sounding slightly whiny. Exercise—especially when my leg and sometimes my ribs still ached—wasn’t my thing.
Raphael cocked his head to the side, his dark eyes steady on me. “What do you mean?”
“I looked at your website,” I said a bit sheepishly. “You’ve written about a very wide range of subjects.”
He grinned. “I like to learn. Okay, let’s give your good leg a workout.”
Ten minutes later, I was wondering if I could pay someone to toss Raphael out the window. Maybe Flynn would do it? He was at odds with the rest of the family anyway, so it was worth a shot.
“Come on, cher, you can stretch more than that.” He crouched on the bed as he lifted my good leg into the air.
“It’s not the legs, it’s the abs,” I said gruffly, trying not to wince. “Unfortunately, they’re attached to my ribs.”