Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Yeah.
I’ll be at her wedding someday, and this will just be some awakening secret we’ll never tell her brothers about.
But I can’t help the spark in my heart that she would see written all over my face if she could see me. I love to look at her. “Put some clothes on.”
“’Kay.” She grins, picking up the phone and holding it to her ear. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I end the call and close the camera app. My dick is as hard as a rock, and I should just finish myself off, but a pickax is driving into my brain. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m so fucking horny, or because I’m a piece of shit, but I know I won’t be able to sleep.
In three minutes, I’m in my gym clothes and in Jared’s car, speeding out of the driveway.
It’s after ten, the gym will be empty, and it’ll be a blessing if I don’t get any sleep tonight. I’m counting on my exhaustion to keep me away from her tomorrow.
Jacking up the music, I cruise into town, park, and charge inside, heading straight upstairs. Sticking in my earbuds, the song I had playing in my car continues in my ears—“Hats Off to the Bull”—and I jump onto the track. I just go, not pacing myself as I dig in my heels and race so hard that I hope I hurt myself. It’s what I deserve.
Even if my mistakes weren’t hanging over my head like a dagger, I’m too old for her. I mean, she’s a damn kid. I remember being that age. I was an idiot, and worse than most, but no one wants the same things they thought they wanted at that age once they get older. What’s the part of the brain that handles good decision-making? The pre-frontal cortex? It’s the last part of our minds to mature, and it doesn’t happen till our late twenties. I should be ashamed of myself. It’s one thing if a guy her age is taking advantage of her, but me? Fuck!
I do four miles on the track, not the slightest bit tired, because the more I run, the more I think. And the more pissed I get. One more fucking thing that I can’t undo or take back.
I move to the weights as my phone buzzes, a call from Lance coming in.
I skip the call. Another male, separate from the family, might be pretty amazing to talk to right now, but being around him just makes me want the life he has. It makes me think being in love with someone younger isn’t a bad idea when I see how happy he is, and he’s no help. He wants me to have a woman here. To fall in love and stay.
I lift a dumbbell, curling my arm over and over again.
Don’t touch her again. Don’t touch her. Don’t watch her.
She’s beautiful and gentle and bright, and she notices the little things as if they’re all wrapped in chocolate.
She’s a sanctuary, and I’m desperate for it. Desperate for everything she is, but I’m making shitty decisions as if I’m her age.
Because she makes me hope for the future.
She makes me think nothing else matters.
I bite down, the memory of her tonight warming my body.
Don’t fucking touch her again. I don’t want to end up a bad memory for her.
I curl my arm up with too much power and the dumbbell goes flying over my shoulder. Whipping around, I see it crash to the carpeted floor, a man yanking his leg out of the way just before it lands on his foot.
“Shit,” I blurt out, rushing over to where he stands at the lat machine. “Sorry.” I pick up the dumbbell. “You okay?”
The gentleman, gray dusting the sides of his brown hair, doesn’t miss a beat in his reps. He continues pulling down the bar, smirking at me over his shoulder.
“Should I be flattered?” he asks.
Huh?
Then his eyes drop to my pants, and I look, seeing the fucking hard-on thinking of Quinn started stirring again.
I turn. Son of a bitch.
“Kidding,” he calls out. “I know who that’s probably for. I saw you the other night, working out with her.”
“With who?”
“Quinn Caruthers,” he says. “The local baker.”
I twist back around. Who is this guy? Green eyes sparkle from behind slightly weathered skin and a five o’clock shadow. Maybe ten years older than me, but he’s in shape. I don’t recognize him. Madoc must know him. He knows everybody.
Did he notice something between Quinn and me? “This isn’t…” I stammer. “It’s not—”
“It’s nice, working out in here so late, isn’t it?” he cuts me off. “Empty, quiet, no eyes watching—”
I narrow my brow.
He smiles at me again. “When you got a special place, you want to keep it to yourself. Am I right?”
I go still. It doesn’t feel like we’re talking about the gym.