Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I shake my head, pushing my hair back over my shoulder. It’s hot out still, and having my thick hair hanging down my neck is a sure way to start sweating. “No. I’m home a lot. Or at the barn with my horse. Though right now he’s recovering from an injury, so I haven’t been able to ride in a few weeks.”
“What happened?” Jacob asks. Right, he’s a vet. Sam brings his arm up to pick up his water bottle and his skin brushes against mine. We were so close to combustion standing together in my kitchen, all it will take is one little spark to start the fire again.
“He slipped on wet grass. We were worried it was a stifle injury, but thankfully it’s not.”
“That’s good. Those can be hard to make full recoveries from.”
I nod and am thankful to talk to Jacob about horses until dinner is ready. We all move inside into the air conditioning.
“Do you want red or white wine?” Mrs. Harris asks me.
“Whatever you’re having is fine with me. I’m not too picky when it comes to wine,” I say, and Mrs. Harris smiles and goes with a bottle of red wine. Sam hands me a plate and motions for me to go in front of him to get food.
“Where should I sit?” I ask when we get into the dining room.
“Next to me,” Sam says, eyes meeting mine. His gaze lingers for a few seconds, and then he turns, setting his plate on the table. I put my plate down as well and then turn to go back into the kitchen to get my drinks. I assume Sam is doing the same, and I almost walk right into him. I stop short and his hands go to my waist, fingers pressing softly into my skin.
My lips part and I tip my head up, meeting his gaze. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt today, matching the color of his eyes perfectly.
“I thought you might fall again,” he says.
“I…I might have. These floors are quite uneven.”
“I was thinking slippery.”
“Yeah. I’m not wearing socks,” I ramble. Sam slides one hand from my waist to the small of my back and turns his gaze from my eyes to my lips. The floor creaks behind him and I jerk back, moving fast and whacking my hand on the back of a chair.
How he’s able to get me turned on that fast with hardly touching me is a talent only Sam can possess.
“Do you want wine?” he asks.
“Yeah, like half a glass,” I say, remembering Farisha’s words. I’m not drunk from the little bit of rum, but I feel my head buzzing even more now that I had Sam’s hands on me again.
“Is this any good?” He looks at the label of Pinot Noir.
“I’m not familiar with that vineyard, but I’d say it depends. Pinot Noir is a dry wine, but it has low acidity which makes it smooth to drink.”
“Look at you.” Sam pours wine into a glass for me.
“I went to a wine tasting a few months ago with friends. We spent a weekend in wine country and tried to act cultured. That little tidbit about Pinot Noir is the only thing I remember. I made the rookie mistake of drinking the entire glass given to me instead of just sipping it. I was the only one out of our group who didn’t puke in the vineyard, though.”
“You had me fooled.” He slides the glass to me and pours a little bit for himself. “Pretending to work out when you’re really being lazy and acting like you know about wine.”
I take a sip of the Pinot Noir and give him a wink. “I’m all about the illusion of having shit together.”
“You mean you don’t?”
I let out a snort of laughter and turn, going back to the table. The others join us right after, and everyone bombards me with questions, just like Sam warned. I really do enjoy talking about writing and everything that goes along with it, especially when the people I’m talking to won’t pick me apart about it later. Or at least, if they do, they won’t post about it on social media, tagging me in every single critical post. And it’s another good distraction, because every time I look at Sam, I see him shirtless and sweaty, like he was in the woods. And if I catch his gaze, I swear he’s mentally undressing me in his mind.
“The most important thing,” Mason says, finishing his third—fourth?—beer, “is if the rumors are true.”
I reach for my own wine glass, heart jumping. “What rumor? There are a lot of them.” I smile nervously, feeling Sam’s eyes on me. What would he think if he found out I was in a fake relationship for years? I’m standing my ground with him on the basis that I’m not a “one-nighter” and I don’t do meaningless anything. The fake relationship wasn’t anything, though, but I’m not betraying Charles by saying so.