Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 101(@200wpm)___ 81(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” She smiles at me, and my cock turns to stone in my jeans.
I grin and lean over her to reach for the seat belt. “You’re welcome.”
I rush around and climb into the driver’s seat. The way she tilts toward me shows off the line of her neck, soft and pale against the seatbelt, and I am instantly, painfully aware of every square inch of her body just inches from mine.
Her delicate scent fills the cab, causing my heart rate to triple. I can’t describe it, but it goes straight to my head. And lower. Goddamn. I grip the steering wheel hard enough to make the leather creak.
I throw the truck into reverse, one arm stretching behind her seat. I’m close enough to feel the warmth of her skin radiate through cotton. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t lean away, just watches me with those wild green eyes. This woman could ask me for anything, and I’d crawl over broken glass to give it to her.
I have to clear my throat before I can trust myself to speak.
“You ever been to Mama Marion’s?”
She shakes her head slowly. Her knuckles brush the console, and I swear to God it feels like a kiss. “No, but I’ve heard it’s great.”
“Bouch recommended it,” I tell her as I follow the directions on the map app.
I pull into the tiny lot. There are maybe five parking spots, all cockeyed, and I wedge my truck in next to a Camry that’s been sideswiped more times than I’ve been in the penalty box.
I help her out of the truck and take her soft hand in mine. The place is small, just a couple of red-and-white checked tables, framed watercolor prints on the walls, and about a gallon of garlic in the air.
There’s a blonde hostess stationed inside the front door. She looks up at us and smiles. “Do you have reservations?”
“We do. Stafford,” I tell her.
She grabs two menus. “Follow me, please.” I put my hand on Daisy’s lower back, just enough pressure to claim her, and follow the hostess to a booth in the far corner.
The vinyl is red, but the light is low enough to turn it almost pink. The table is set with oil and vinegar, parmesan in a shaker, and a tiny vase with a single white carnation.
Daisy slides in, and I sit across from her, stretching my legs so our knees brush under the table.
A young guy in a crisp white shirt appears out of nowhere. He’s got a notepad and the build of someone who’s never seen the inside of a weight room.
His voice is nervous. “Can I get you started with anything? Drinks, appetizers?”
Daisy doesn’t hesitate. “Diet Coke, please.”
I look at her, then up at the guy. “I’ll take whatever you have on draft.”
His pen jitters against the paper. “You folks need a minute with the menu, or do you know what you want?”
Daisy barely glances at the menu. “I’ll have the chicken parm. With a house salad and extra breadsticks.” She closes the menu, flicks it aside. “Please.”
Fuck, she’s so goddamn perfect. Food is the last thing on my mind. My cock throbs in my pants, and I have to ignore the fucker.
I don’t bother looking at the menu since food is the last thing on my mind. “Lasagna and a house salad. And another round of breadsticks.” I glance at her. “Just in case.”
The server scribbles, nods, and scurries away like his ass is on fire.
I lean in, elbows braced on the table. She’s already watching me, eyes sharp and bright. There’s a flicker in them, a microsecond of approval she covers by smoothing her napkin.
Then she leans in, elbows on the table. Voice low enough that the whole world shrinks to this booth and the secret tucked in her mouth. “I googled you.”
For a second, I can’t even think. All I can do is stare, heat flooding my face. Daisy Castille. The woman who doesn’t give two shits about hat tricks or highlights. She looked me up.
My pulse pounds so hard I can taste it.
“Why?”
She glances up, finally. Her gaze is sharp, slicing right through me. “I wanted to know more about you.”
Fucking hell. That’s promising.
“Anything you want to know, ask. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Tell me all your deepest, darkest secrets,” she teases.
This is it. “Well,” I start, “I don’t bring out the skeletons in my closet until the third date.”
“Then I’ll settle for the boring old stuff.” She laughs.
“I’m from a little town on the coast of Maine called Smitten Harbor.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine. “I looked it up, actually. Your Wikipedia page says ‘quaint fishing village,’ which I’m assuming is code for ‘the middle of nowhere’.”
I laugh. She’s not wrong. “Pretty much. The main street’s two blocks long, and you’ll miss it if you so much as blink.”