Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
The man next to me is more hot bod god than pixie, I think.
I note the ‘Home Sweet Home’ dishcloth hasn’t moved from the sink, and I can’t help but frown at how the throw cushions are kind of scrunched from where they’ve been sat on. Typical man.
“It’s a nice place, right?”
I nod, oddly pleased by his compliment. “A bit on the small side for you.”
He smiles and slides me the kind of look that seems to say you really want to go there? When my eyebrows pinch a second time, my expression seems to wash right off him.
“’Scuse me.”
A hot burst of sensation explodes against my hip as Roman’s hand briefly holds me there. He leans around me, reaching for something on the kitchen drainer. It’s over in a split second, but I still register the shocking heat and scent of him; his musky manliness overlaid by the hint of laundry detergent from the sheets. He straightens, and I feel the loss of contact immediately, though my eyes remain glued to that delectable hollow of his throat. He shakes out something white and cotton, and I come back to myself. It’s a T-shirt. The realisation makes me both happy and dissatisfied. I’m happy he listened to me but sad that it concludes with him covering himself. It isn’t a useful truth but a truth all the same, not that it alters my current expression of resting bitch face. Maybe that should be active bitch face, considering how I’ve forced myself to keep it engaged.
Jesus H. Stop with the overthinking.
“Better?” he asks, his head appearing from the neck of his T-shirt, muscles popping and flexing again as his right arm bursts from the armhole. He does this cute little flourish once the last inch of his abs is secured from my view.
“Infinitely.” Especially given that the cotton is well-worn cotton and clings to his biceps like saran wrap. I hustle my ass over to the pine table big enough for two and pull out a chair. Not because I want to get out from touching distance or anything, but because this is a meeting, and serious meetings require serious faces and opposing ends of a table. Even a table not much bigger than a chess board.
“You know, I usually get paid a lot of money to take my clothes off.”
“So you’re stripping these days?” My tone is mild as my hand tightens on the back of the chair. I mean, he’s got the body for it. It’s not like I knew what he did for a living eight years ago. Not that it seems he’s about to tell me right now, judging by that half smile of his. Smiles. This man has an arsenal of them, each one of them more enticing than the last. “Or is it Only Fans that brings in the big bucks these days?”
“Why, are you interested in a subscription?”
“I’ll put it on my Christmas list.” I drop into the chair, then I notice the artwork on his T-shirt. Two crudely drawn birds with unlikely blue feet under a declaration that I try to ignore.
Is he trying to make a point? A point of my deficiencies? I decide I won’t be drawn into commenting.
He smiles again. This one says rogue as he picks up his tiny cup. “Mmm . . . my.” Like muscles, emphasis on the mmm. His blue gaze sparkles over the lid, a total incitement to my death by embarrassment for the second time in five minutes.
“Are you being serious right now?”
“I never joke about coffee, darl.”
“What are you doing here, Roman?” I find myself wriggling in the metal chair, industrial being synonymous with uncomfortable, it seems. By contrast, Roman leans his butt back against the tiny butler-style sink. He crosses one ankle over the other like he’d be at ease anywhere.
“I think this is what’s called serendipity.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” I fold my hands around the heat of my cup and drop my gaze.
“I reckon questions are something we both have a lot of.”
“You think?” Jesus, why don’t I just stick out my tongue. Flick boogers at him or something.
“Yeah. How are you, Kennedy? That’ll do for a start?”
“How are—what?” Even I can hear how the beginning and end of my question sound like words from a badly dubbed film.
“How are you?” he repeats. “How have you been these past seven, almost eight years?”
“Fine,” I bristle, wondering if I have to be such a bitch. Then deciding I do because while he’s trying to be nice, he’s also kind of an ass. Or maybe he’s just playful, trying to set me at ease. In my own tiny house, forsooth. “And you?” I bring my cup to my lips before I say anything else unpleasant.
“Yeah.” He nods and pulls his free hand from behind him, dipping it left then right. So-so. “There have been some interesting moments, but good on the whole.”