Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Then, after a minute or two: “Hand me the—”
I’ve already got the wrench, setting it onto his outstretched palm. He looks up, appears surprised for the teensiest fraction of a second, then goes right back under the hood.
“Didn’t think you even noticed me,” I tease.
“How can I not?” he mumbles.
And doesn’t explain what he means.
Was that a good thing? Or a diss? Did I clomp over the grass or something?
Or does he mean he always notices me?
“Something wrong?” he asks.
It might be the first time he’s ever asked something sensitive about me. How I’m feeling.
I’m pleasantly taken aback.
Then, annoyed, he adds: “You keep rubbing your dang neck.”
Oh. “I was just … well …” I drop my hand. “It’s this lady at the flower shop. Jacky-Ann. Housekeeper-slash-honorary-member of the Strong family. She …” Suddenly I don’t need to chew his ear off about it. “I’m just working out a bad crick is all.”
He comes out from under the hood, wipes his hands off on a rag over his shoulder, then nods. “Lemme see it.”
“Nah, it’s okay, I’m fine.”
“Wyatt.”
“No, really, it’s just a—”
He stands right in front of me. Places his hands firmly on my shoulders. Squeezes deeply.
I stare at him, inches from his face, surprised.
I don’t know why he’s massaging my shoulders from the front like this. Shouldn’t he have turned me around?
But the way his fingers find the strength to dig into me this way. And how, regardless of what I think, he’s totally hitting the spots in the base of my neck and shoulders that were giving me trouble. And the more he kneads my neck, the more I seem to fall toward him, putty in his big hands.
The stresses of my day are gone.
Don’t even remember what Jacky-Ann finally settled on.
No longer wondering what Nadine secretly thinks of me and my “connection” with my former neighbors’ nephew.
Couldn’t care less whether Cash decided to come in to whine about his Nico or the what’s-her-name caught between them.
I just stand here, trying not to let my eyes rock back, staring into Diego’s stern, iron-hard gaze as he works my sore neck and shoulders into a soup. I drown in his intoxicatingly manly aroma, full of grease and irresistible sweat. Even his hands, despite wiping them off, are still gritty with his work, and I can’t explain it, but it’s so fucking hot to feel them pressing against my skin, thumbing into me, like some magic, loving kind of exfoliant.
Extracting all my bad.
Fill me with all his good.
Massaging me into sweet bliss in the process.
“Do you charge by the hour?” I ask.
His face tightens. “You can’t afford me.”
“Probably not. This a trial run, then?”
“Maybe.”
He’s so sexy when he shows me his sense of humor.
Even when his handsome face remains as blank as a stone and indicates in no way whatsoever that he’s actually joking.
I feel privileged to likely be the only person on the planet to see this side of him. I have a feeling he shows it to few others.
If anyone at all.
“Do you have a full-body package?” I ask.
“Fuckin’ horn dog,” he grunts back.
I drop my jaw, acting offended.
He grabs me around the waist, flips me over his shoulder with stunning ease, and carries me straight into his house as I laugh out in protest.
After the caveman haul, I’m set down on the edge of his bed with unexpected tenderness. Then he proceeds to slip my shirt off my body, undo and remove my pants, tug down my underwear, and lay me on my back. Then Diego stands before my naked body like a mountain, comically tall, shadowed on one side, stripes of glowing light cast over the other from the blinds. The mountain sheds his sweaty tank top. Kicks off his pants like they piss him off suddenly. Never once smiling. Naked now, just as I am.
He flips me over and straddles my back. I sigh as his weight presses down on me. And the warmth of his hands as they spread over my shoulder blades like hot stones both rough and smooth, treating my skin to the pleasures of the stubborn oils still on his fingertips that didn’t come off on the rag.
For as cold as he is with me most of the time, his hands tell me so much more.
How he cares.
How he devotes himself.
How he makes room for me.
Makes time for me.
Lets me in.
I wonder if I’ve truly let him in me.
I mean, other than literally.
We’ve had moments together. He’s eaten my food. I handed him a tool or two. We even took a shower. But we’re not exactly braiding each other’s hair. He doesn’t involve himself in how I’m feeling, or why my parents are out of the picture. And I haven’t had the balls to ask him about his father, who I know passed away a few years ago. How do I even bring that up? Why does it feel like saying the wrong thing might abruptly end whatever it is we’re building here?