Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
The not-over-sixty hottie sticks out one meaty paw. “Beau Taves.” It kind of sounds like Bow Toes, and I do my best not to choke on a sudden burst of laughter. Is he for real, or are we both using fake names? “My code word is crawfish, so I must be at the right place.”
“No. There’s been a mistake.” I give him my best feral expression. It probably looks like I’m grinning a welcome at him. At five-foot-four and barely a hundred pounds, all blonde and freckled and wearing one of my prairie dresses, I’m about as intimidating as a hangnail.
He looks confused as he pulls out his phone. He does a scrolling thing with the screen—he must have a really good phone plan because there isn’t much reception out here unless you’re on the Wi-Fi, and I have to have a satellite dish up on the roof to give me that much.
He flashes the app, which shows the contract he’s already filled out ahead of time, at me. There, clearly, is a message from me giving him the date and time to arrive and directions out to the acreage. He raises a brow and stays dreadfully silent. He’s one of those, I realize. One of those too tall, too dark, too handsome, too quiet all the time, unnerving types. He does all of that on purpose. I mean…most of it. I suppose he can’t help how he looks.
Never mind, he’s rich. Of course he can help it.
That suit, which fits his tall, tall, exceptionally tall frame like a freaking glove, helps a lot. I recognize the designer. I thought the price tag was five grand, but it is probably closer to eight grand. It’s best to stand here and pretend I don’t know anything about clothes. I’m just a country bumpkin renting out half of her bed for a single night to pay the bills. It’s just little old me here, poor and dressed in rags, and he’s the dark prince charming with all the money, coming to save me.
Fuck. That.
But guys get off on it, and those guys are my clients, so…
I can pretend.
I’m great at pretending.
Except right now.
Right now, my face is red hot, and when I blush, I look more like a sunburned tomato left out in the boiling sun a few too many hours in addition to being scorched on a super hot North Dakota summer day.
“N—no.” Shit. I hate when I stammer. I do not stammer. There’s something about this guy and the way he just stands there looking all amused and not one bit confused, flustered, or off-guard now that has me tongue-tied. Also, does he have to be so disastrously good-looking? “There’s been a mistake. You’re not over sixty. I exclusively only allow men over sixty to do this.”
At least he frowns now as he scrolls back a few pages and brings up his profile. He taps the screen and groans.
That groan sounds like it comes from the toes and travels all the way up the six-foot-three or so frame. It rattles out and scrapes out. It’s fully formed and is deliciously and devastatingly sexy. I’ve never heard a more pleasing sound in my life.
Ugh, biology and hormones sometimes disgust me. I blame them entirely for this reaction I’m having right now, though reaction is a light word. The inside of my body feels like a chemistry lab about to explode violently.
“I messed up when I made my profile. Instead of saying thirty-six, it reversed the numbers and said sixty-three.”
Thirty-six. Thirty freaking six. There’s no way this guy is thirty-six.
Then again, there is a certain…ruggedness to his face and a few extra lines around the eyes that only give character. Maybe it’s the darkness in his eyes that say he’s seen some life, and in that life, he’s seen some shit. Do I want him to have seen shit? Ugh. I have a thing for villains, in theory. In real life, they’re not much fun. Then again, my ex was just a straight-up criminal and an asshole piece of fuckery. It doesn’t make him a villain. Villains are so much more than people who do bad things. It’s how they do them. And it’s what they feel on the inside.
I have a problem. I admit it.
I don’t like real-life danger, but I like the idea of it. I don’t think golden-haired, do-gooder men are hot. I’m sorry, but the Prince Charming and white horse fantasy isn’t for me. I guess I shouldn’t use the term villains. That’s bad. I should say anti-heroes. Anti-heroes imply you don’t like straight-up darkness in the bedroom, but you’re certainly not a vanilla girl. It implies that you see the world in more ways than black and white.
“It reversed the numbers, or you reversed the numbers?” I’m giving this guy zero slack. Also? Hot as he is, he’s not stepping foot in this house, and he’s certainly not hot bedding in my bed.