Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Abby
Bracing myself against the counter in Caleb’s bathroom, which is apparently the master suite, if the double vanity sinks, ginormous jetted bathtub, and spacious walk-in closet are any indication. Masculinity assaults my senses. The entire room smells like guy—aftershave or cologne or whatever guys use to smell amazing permeates the air, and a few bottles of Polo sit on the countertop.
I reach over and carefully pick up a blue bottle of cologne, lift the cap off, and close my eyes, inhaling its musky, outdoorsy scent. Very gingerly, so it doesn’t make a clanking sound, I replace the cap and set the cologne back in its rightful place.
Resting both hands on either side of the sink, I exhale and stare back at my reflection.
I’ll admit, I don’t exactly look terrible.
In fact, the alcohol-induced courage has added some much-needed luminosity to my skin, my eyes glowing vibrantly. Running my fingers through my hair, I fluff it a bit, tossing it over my shoulders.
A stack of clean green washcloths sit neatly arranged on a shelf, and I grab one, turning on the cold water to dampen it. I wring out the excess water, blotting the washcloth against my sticky skin—down my neck and into my décolletage.
You never really understand how sticky beer is until it gets spilled—or spit—directly on your skin and left there to dry. Well, I understand it now, and it’s freaking gross.
Studying myself in the mirror, I focus on my chest and the way it looks in the push-up bra I reluctantly put on under my shirt. Well, I’ll admit I didn’t really need a push-up bra, but it does display my perky, full b-cup breasts nicely within the deep neckline of the pale blue wrap shirt, and even though I’m embarrassed at having my boobs on exhibit, I can’t help acknowledging they look pretty darn good.
Actually, my boobs look great.
Encouraged, I turn this way and that, checking out my boobs and ass in the mirror. The dark-wash skinny-jean capris are a pair I haven’t worn in ages, so I was thrilled tonight after discovering they actually still fit my size five/six frame.
I didn’t even have to lie down on the bed to zip them up—there is a God!
I’ve strapped on some nude summer wedges, the leather straps wrapping around my ankles and buckling with gold hardware in the front. Very sexy. Very cute.
You know—sexy-cute. (Wink.)
Once I’m done wiping myself down, I neatly fold the washcloth in half and drape it over the towel bar next to the bathtub. Spinning back toward the sink, a pair of glasses catches my eye. I move to pick them up, biting down on my lip as I inspect them.
Thick black Ray-Ban frames with prescription lenses.
I close my eyes for a second, trying to visualize Caleb’s pensive, dark-chocolate gaze framed by these glasses, and I give a little squeak, followed by a wistful sigh. I catalog sexy black glasses, mentally filing it in the same category as gaps in teeth under: Abby’s Kryptonite.
Setting the glasses back on the counter precisely where I found them, I take a calming breath and stare at the doorknob before inhaling and pulling the door open.
Squaring my shoulders, I walk back into Caleb’s bedroom. He’s lying across his bed, head resting on a ton of pillows—way more pillows than any guy should have and bordering on feminine—and feet hanging over the edge as he stares a hole through the bathroom door.
He straightens hastily when I walk out, runs his palms up and down his upper thighs a few times, and scoots himself on the edge of the large king-sized bed. “All good?”
“Yup. All good…” I answer absentmindedly, my eyes once again scanning his room.
First thought: it’s much cleaner than I would have guessed. His bed has been made, a navy-blue duvet-covered comforter folded neatly at the foot of it. The many throw pillows of grays, blues, and greens are stacked in an orderly fashion at the headboard. On his nightstand is another pair of black-rimmed glasses, a water bottle, and a small stack of novels.
Silently, I read the titles from where I stand: American Sniper, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Shit My Dad Says, and… is that Harry Potter?
Talk about a diverse collection.
Secretly pleased, I give a furtive smile.
Caleb stands, smoothing down his jeans and rumpled shirt, but I’m not ready to walk out into the party mayhem—not just yet. He watches me intently as I walk over to the desk, trailing a fingertip along the solid wood, glancing up at him briefly from the corner of my eye, resting my hand on a hardcover copy of Gone Girl.
I pick it up, flipping through the pages, the familiar smell of freshly printed paper assaulting my senses. “I haven’t read an actual book for pleasure in months,” I say, twisting my wrist as I hold it toward him. “But I did read this one. What did you think of it?”