Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 48187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 241(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
The sun is dipping close to the horizon by the time I reach Lauren’s house. Her dad has money, though I still don’t know what he does for a living. I’m not particularly looking forward to meeting the guy, because frankly I’d like to throttle him for ignoring his daughter’s health needs. I park in the driveway and walk to the front door. After ten minutes of knocking and not being answered, worry niggles at me. But then I hear laughter. Sweet and melodic. Backyard.
I’m totally a creep, but I don’t care as I stalk around the side of the house and through the gate. I find Lauren on the phone as she bends over, situating something on the porch floor.
“Love you too.” Another laugh. “Bye, Dad.”
She hangs up and then positions her phone as though she’s taking a picture of what’s at her feet. I take a moment to assess her health—because clearly that’s the reason I run my greedy eyes up her bare, tanned legs. She’s barefoot and wearing jean shorts with frayed ends. They’re short enough that the pockets stick out beneath the denim. Her black Rolling Stones shirt is fitted, nicely hugging her breasts. It’s her hair, though, that I have such an intense craving to touch. Long, golden, blond. It hangs halfway down her back in messy waves.
She’s beautiful.
I kissed her a couple of weeks ago like she was mine.
And then…
She left.
Hurt burns inside my gut, but I ignore it. My dumbass hasn’t dated in so long I can’t even remember how to be normal. I should be after women my age, not one who just graduated with my daughter. I’m twenty-seven years her senior, which is kind of fucked up.
Maybe the kiss was unwanted.
What young woman would want her old doctor trying to make out with her?
Then that means I misread our chemistry and her expressions and our touches. Goddammit.
“You going to keep standing there looking like a psycho muttering to yourself or are you going to watch the sunset with me?”
The sassiness in her voice jerks my attention to her. She has one hand on her hip with it cocked out to the side. A dark blond brow is arched high in challenge and she’s smirking. It makes me want to suck that half smile, half sneer right off her juicy lips.
No.
I need to erase those thoughts.
She’s eight-fucking-teen.
I clear my throat and shrug. “I guess.”
Her brown eyes gleam with victory as she turns and walks over to the porch swing. My gaze follows her ass in her tight denim shorts. She looks healthy and hot as hell. I follow her, unbuttoning my dress shirt at my wrists and rolling up my sleeves. It’s warm and watching her makes it that much hotter.
We sit on the swing together. She turns her body to face mine, boldly stretching her legs across my lap. Fuck, she confuses the hell out of me. Like the greedy bastard I am, I slide my palm up her lower leg from her ankle to her knee and then back again. Goose bumps rise on her flesh at my touch.
“Why are you here, Dr. Dan? To take my rectal temperature?”
I grit my teeth and shoot her a warning glare. “Stop.”
“Why would I want to stop when going is so much more fun?” She laughs, but I don’t laugh back. “Aww,” she croons. “Come on. Don’t be like that. I missed you.”
This gets my attention.
I study her features closely. Despite her smile and sunny disposition, worry and fatigue claim her. Her brown eyes are intense and her brows slightly pinched. The dark circles under her eyes lead me to believe she’s not getting much rest. I run my palm back up her thigh, hoping to comfort her. She relaxes and leans her shoulder on the back of the swing before her gaze drifts beyond the porch to the setting sun. I sense that she wants peace, so I follow her stare and watch it go down. My hand slides up and down her leg, never stopping.
“What’s all that?” I ask, pointing to the flowers and books and plate of cookies on the porch floor.
She smiles. “I was working on something for my blog.
“You have a blog?”
“Keep up, stalker.”
Slipping my hand to her foot, I give the bottom a tickle. “Are you always such a smartass?”
She laughs and tries to pull her foot away, but I grip it to keep her from going anywhere.
“When I’m feeling great, I am.”
This should calm my erratic heart, but it doesn’t.
“You’re feeling great right now?”
“I feel better than I have in months.”
A huge “but” lingers in the air.
“But what?” I can’t help but ask. I need to know.
She shrugs. “Why are you here?”
Because I’m fucking obsessed with you.
“To check on you,” I grumble.
“Your bedside manner is commendable,” she teases. “Maybe I should interview you for my blog.”