Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
For the first time since they’d left the house, she found herself curious about Luna’s whereabouts. The dog hadn’t followed them outside and Iris wondered if it was because TDH had locked her in the house to prevent the canine from being underfoot while they worked.
Luna was a pleasant subject with which to occupy her wandering mind, and Iris wondered how old the dog was. Did she often travel with her owner? Iris hadn’t really heard anything about him having a dog before. Usually celebrity-owned dogs achieved a degree of fame as well. And an oversized dog like Luna would surely have been noticed by the media.
Iris was idly mulling over the dog when Trystan Abbot reappeared, his hulking frame blocking out the sullen light in the doorway.
“Let’s go,” he commanded her in that no-nonsense, irritating way of his.
But, since Iris was incapable of moving, she attempted to deflect his attention. “What kind of dog is Luna?”
His head tilted as he watched at her. She couldn’t read the expression on his face, not with the light behind him, but she sensed his curiosity.
He shocked the hell out of her when he deigned to reply. “Irish wolfhound.”
“How old is she?”
“Two.” Another easy reply. He propped a shoulder against the doorframe and folded his beefy arms over his chest, while he continued to stare at her. The rain had to be pelting against his back, but he gave no sign that it bothered him.
“And you’ve had her since she was a puppy?”
“Hmm.”
“Does she often travel with you?”
“Hmm.”
Not very forthcoming, but she took it to mean yes.
“Why an Irish wolfhound?”
His shoulders shifted. “Why not?”
“Why are you answering my questions?” The question was out before she even knew she was going to ask it, her brain as sluggish as her body.
“Because it’s a very obvious delaying tactic,” he said, pushing away from the doorframe and coming toward her. He moved with the sinuous flexibility of a man who knew his body—and its limitations—very well. She’d never seen anything quite as sexy as that intent prowling gait of his.
“Delaying tactic?” she repeated. Yet another delaying tactic. It was embarrassingly obvious, and she almost imagined she caught the fleeting glimpse of a grin beneath that beard.
“You can’t move, can you?” he asked, lowering himself into a lithe squat in front of her. Crowding her with his heat and masculinity and bulk. His large hands were resting on the bench on either side of her hips and his face was inches away from hers.
The clean scent of fabric softener wafted up from his soaked clothing, combined with something woodsy—his shampoo or soap maybe. God, he smelled amazing. No expensive aftershave or cologne here. Just soap, and detergent, and outdoors, and man.
She swallowed past the painful lump that had lodged in her throat.
This was Trystan Abbot, hottest man on the planet according to several well-known publications, as well as the thousands of fan-run social media accounts dedicated to him. Not to mention the hundreds of millions of people scattered across the globe who flocked to see his movies every year.
The guy was undeniably charismatic, sexy, and a feast for the eyes. And—after the kidnapping and imprisonment and arseholery of the last twenty-four hours—Iris had lost sight of exactly who it was she was dealing with. But right now, despite his grumpiness and this whole lumberjack-hermit thing he had going on she was very conscious that the man in front of her was, in fact, a multiple-award-winning movie star.
“How bad is it?” he asked, an unfamiliar gentleness seeping into his voice.
“What?” She couldn’t quite keep up with the conversation. Not when she was so exhausted and in pain and overwhelmingly aware of who he was.
“The pain? How bad is it?”
Oh.
She stared down at her hands, which were resting palm up on her lap, fingers curled into claws.
“Well, I don’t think I can bend my fingers,” she admitted. “And I’m not sure I can lift my arms. My thighs feel like jelly and I very much doubt my legs’ll be able to support my weight. And my back…”
Her words faded into a moan as she finally acknowledged how bad her back was.
He sighed deeply, the exhalation emerging on a quiet grunt.
“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”
One of his arms encircled her waist, and the other slid beneath her thighs. And within seconds—in an impressive show of strength—he effortlessly went from a squat to standing upright, with her in his arms.
As if she hadn’t been awed enough by his strength and stamina after all the heavy lifting she’d seen him do already today.
“You don’t have to carry me,” she protested, and he had the nerve to laugh at her. It wasn’t much of a laugh, just an incredulous little huff, but it was definitely mocking.
“What do you propose I do then? Load you into one of the wheelbarrows and push you uphill back to the house?”