Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 15212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
“Chicago.”
A moving mental image of her in the distant city dances in my head. She’s walking through a maze of people in a crosswalk while horns blare and sirens whine. I don’t like it very much. “How did you end up here?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
A centering breath expands her chest. “I took a road trip with my mom when I was thirteen, and we stopped for lunch here. At the diner. There’d been a sign on the road boasting the world’s biggest ant statue—you know, the one on the roof of the hardware store.” She smiles and my heart beats faster. “We looked at the ant through the window of the diner while we drank milkshakes and ate fries. We named him Andy, by the way, and Mom made up this whole story about how I’d kiss Andy and he’d turn into a handsome prince, climb off the roof of the hardware store, and carry us into the sunset on his back—excuse me, thorax. It was silly, but . . . it was a good day after a lot of bad ones.” She doesn’t elaborate on that, and I don’t ask her to. Not yet. “Ever since I moved to town, she’s been texting me to ask if Andy has proposed yet. I send her pictures of me blowing him kisses or looking at him with googly eyes. I’m sure the hardware-store owners think I’m one nugget shy of a Happy Meal.”
A rumble kicks up in my chest.
Am I jealous of an ant statue? Christ, I think I am.
I pick up the slightly rusted blue metal box and cross the kitchen, then kneel down in front of her, glancing up in time to watch her mouth pop open, her hands flying to the edges of the seat, gripping. Have I surprised her by kneeling? How else did she think I was going to get down here to tend to her feet?
From this position, I’m close enough to see tiny peach fuzz hairs on her thighs, the subtle shift of muscle under supple skin. She has a scar on her right knee that looks like it’s from childhood, freckles scattered about. I try very hard not to look at the seam of her shorts, but I fail, my attention ticking there long enough to memorize the denim swell of her pussy, how her inner thighs are extra soft the higher they go.
What would it be like to have a woman like this welcome me between her legs?
Fucking paradise, that’s what.
“A handsome prince,” I say hoarsely, ripping open the tiny alcohol-swab package with my teeth. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
“No.” She doesn’t hiss or wince when I apply the alcohol to her wound, cleaning it, that lack of reaction telling me more about her. “I’m just focused on earning a living and taking care of my son. I’m not looking for a man at all. Or an ant.”
Shit. “You can’t always time these things. What if someone came along and started looking interesting to you?”
Evie doesn’t answer right away. She watches me apply Neosporin to two Band-Aids and put them on her blisters, smoothing the adhesive with my thumbs. Are those goose bumps popping up on her legs? Is it cold in here?
“If someone looked interesting to me,” she starts, voice husky in a way that makes my skin hot, “I guess I’d propose a casual arrangement.”
My mouth is suddenly dry. “What’s a ‘casual arrangement’?”
“You know . . .”
And then she says three words that I immediately form a love-hate relationship with.
“Friends with benefits.”
Chapter Three
Evie
It’s a Whole Thing, having this Very Big Man kneeling at my feet, fixing my blisters.
Up close, he smells like . . . land. Wind, earth, hard leather. His skin is so weathered, it’s almost like the sun has baked some of the farm’s richest soil into his flesh. Even the simple task of putting Band-Aids on my heels has caused a whole riot of flexing triceps and trapezius muscles. His mouth and eyebrows are set in a line, the look of concentration and care on his face nudging something inside me that I’m not ready to have nudged.
No way.
Not happening.
“I think I should go,” I whisper.
“I haven’t even tried the jeans on yet.”
“Oh, right.” I swallow hard, ignoring the deep yen to feel his palms skimming up my thighs. “Could you?”
“Could I what?” he asks, definitely stealing a look at the fly of my jean shorts and getting distracted. Can he see me clenching through the denim?
Good gravy, am I attracted to this man. And not only for the physique that suggests he could lift an eighteen-wheeler but also his demeanor. Not only has he apologized for making incorrect assumptions about me—he went out of his way to make me feel safe and comfortable. Now he’s on his knees, bandaging my wounds.