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)
But there’s so much left to be talked about. Especially after all that came out at the restaurant.
And everything that didn’t.
“Do you want to … come inside and …” I’m fishing for words. I completely forgot which plants I tended and which ones I haven’t. Only a little evening sun is in the sky, obscured by the tall trees in my back neighbor’s yard. “… and maybe we can talk about—”
“I don’t want to talk.”
I meet his eyes.
“I don’t think you do, either,” he goes on.
My eyes drop to his lips.
To his chest.
He comes inside the greenhouse. Puts himself right in front of me. Lifts his hand to my forehead, runs it over my head, settles it at the base of my neck, and grips me.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks. “Or you still pissed at me?”
What a Diego way to ask.
“For what?” I throw back. “Ganging up on me with Connie?”
He snorts. “Maybe she’s pushy. Takes over. But she seems to really care about you. And … I’m pretty sure she got the message to pull back a little, don’t you think?”
I smile. “Yeah. I guess … I guess you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
He keeps looking my face over like he’s making plans.
Something very small holding him back from just going all in.
Like a single word of permission.
A subtle glance into his eyes.
A hook of my finger into his pants, tugging him against me.
It feels that easy to burst the dam.
“And no, I’m not still pissed at you.” My eyes dance down to his chest. “Maybe I was more … upset with myself.”
“Why?”
“Well … after a few things my sister said to me before she left. And some things you said to me in the car that one night. And … what I said back.” I bite my lip, troubled suddenly. “I shouldn’t have said you’re the guy who mows over the flowers. It was just an accident. You thought you were looking after that house the way your aunt and uncle asked you to, cleaning up the yard. You were doing what you thought was right. And I …” My eyes meet his again. “I just didn’t understand you yet.”
He stares back, listening.
“Maybe I could smile less,” I point out.
“Don’t you dare.”
Despite trying to keep a straight face, I crack. “Or else what?”
He takes a step forward. “Or I’ll give you a reason to smile.”
“So now you like smiles?”
He hooks his hands under my legs and lifts me to the counter, which bumps my floral snips onto the floor where they clatter. “Just yours.” Then he goes in for my neck, surprising me, as I rock my eyes back and squirm against his kisses. “Don’t give them to anyone else but me,” he growls. “No one else deserves them.”
I struggle to find anything to hold onto except his body, so my fingertips carve wrinkles into his shirt as I cling for balance.
He gives my neck no mercy with his fierce lips.
Then his tongue comes out to play and I’m done for.
It isn’t the first time I’ve watched the sun set while in my little greenhouse, but it’s sure the first time I’ve had someone macking on me while doing it. And when I lose my pants and he loses his, I sure hope I don’t have another neighbor who’s outside growing too curious about the commotion on the other side of the fence.
Needless to say, we spend a lot of time out there.
More time than I’d intended when first planning to just tend to my sweethearts, including dear Bertha and her pink kisses.
By the time the stars are out, we’re inside and making dinner. Neither of us put our pants back on for some reason. For all of my concern about backyard peepers, I apparently don’t care about the show we might be putting on through the kitchen window. I keep stirring the pot, smirking and happy. He chops up vegetables.
Then he stops. “I don’t want you to … to think I came over just for this.”
I look at him. “For dinner?”
“For sex.” His grip on the knife changes. “Just wanted to make sure you were fine. After your sister left. Things got pretty heated back at the restaurant, and … and I just wanted to make sure.”
“I’m okay, Diego. Promise.” I nod at the counter. “As long as you don’t lose a finger worrying about me.”
He frowns. “I’m not worried.” He goes back to chopping away, slower this time.
A moment passes. “I thought about you, too, Diego.” He stays quiet as he works, listening. “How you stand up for me. Even when I … may not seem to appreciate it. Thanks. For doing that.”
“Only ‘cause you don’t do it enough yourself.”
“I’m saying you’re sweet.”
“Just doin’ what’s right.”
“Take the compliment, will you?”
He pauses. Struggles. Then gives in. “Thanks.” After scooping the diced-up vegetables into the bowl, he stops. “Someone’s gotta have your back if you don’t watch it yourself. I’ll even defend you in ways you don’t even see.”