Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Jonas curses. “This way.”
I’m far too eager to see more of his house, but even if I wasn’t, the command in those two little words would be enough to have me following him up the stairs and…into his room.
I stop short and stare at the bed. It’s a very nice bed. King-sized and with a reasonable number of pillows—four—and a bed frame made of iron bands welded into a design that gives the impression of a tree—either oak or maple. It’s exactly the kind of thing I would have chosen for the master bedroom in a house like this. It looks like a destination for more than sleep, like a great place to curl up and read or cuddle or do any number of explicit things that I most definitely should not be associating with a man who’s already rejected me.
Jonas reappears in the closet doorway and tosses a piece of clothing on the bed. “Change into this.” He glances at my clothes and makes a face. “Don’t suppose you can put your clothes in the dryer.”
I jerk back. “Only if I want to ruin them.” It’s not that they’re particularly expensive or hard to replace, but I didn’t pack an extra set of clothes because I didn’t realize I’d be caught in a rain storm.
“Thought as much.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the second doorway behind him. “Hang them up in the bathroom. Shouldn’t take too long to dry.”
There’s no point in arguing. I’m soaked and shivering and dripping on his floors. Letting my clothes dry so I can get the hell out of here is a good plan. “Okay.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” He pauses, blue eyes somewhere between exasperated and annoyed. “Try to resist wasting both our time by getting distracted with the tile work.”
“No promises.” I grab the clothing off the bed and duck into the bathroom. Despite my best efforts, I can’t help a low murmur of approval at the shower. The upstairs isn’t particularly large, but it’s like he carved off a big chunk of what normally would have been the master bedroom and devoted it to bathroom space instead. I like it. Who needs a sitting room in their master? I’d much rather have a tiled walk-in shower that…
I crouch down and run my fingers over the stylized design on the floor of it that looks like a creek. Following the winding path leads to the back of the shower with several shower heads that I suspect, when turned on, will give the impression of a waterfall. Damn, that’s cool.
Focus, Blake.
It’s not until I’m peeling out of my wet clothes that I realize how fucked I really am. When I pictured this confrontation in my head—because pitching this project to Jonas after he dodged me for weeks will be a confrontation—I was dressed to impress and unflustered and powerful in my arguments.
Instead, I’m going to be delivering my pitch barefoot and wearing Jonas’s shirt.
I hang my shirt and skirt and stockings over the tile divider and hesitate. My bra and panties are equally soaked. If I put the shirt on over them, I’m going to be walking around with some unsightly wet spots.
The alternative is being naked except for the shirt.
I’m not sure which is preferable, because they both seem like terrible options. I worry my bottom lip and hold the shirt up to my front. It’s long enough to hit me mid-thigh and large enough that it shouldn’t cling too much… I hope.
Though, for real, would it have killed him to give me a pair of pants, too? Or shorts? Or something?
That irritation has me unhooking my bra and sliding out of my panties. I pick up the shirt again and it strikes me that I’m naked in Jonas’s house and… Yeah, I’m not going to think about that too hard. I hastily yank the shirt over my head and try to dry my hair a little more with the towel.
The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks nothing like the confident business owner that I wanted to project when I arrived. My hair is wet, I’m wearing Jonas’s shirt and it somehow makes my legs look even longer, and there’s no denying the way my nipples press against the thin fabric.
Cold. It’s because I’m cold.
I cross my arms over my chest, but that just makes it worse because it pulls the fabric tighter against my body. That’s it, I’m going to ask him for shorts right now. Maybe a giant sweatshirt or something, too.
I jerk open the bathroom door and nearly run into Jonas. He catches my shoulders. “Whoa.”
The sight of him is so unexpected, it completely derails my thoughts. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my house.” He still hasn’t let go of my shoulders. “And it’s been ten minutes. You were ogling the tile work, weren’t you?”