Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
His place even has the swirly spiral staircase that goes up to the loft—metal steps and railing and all. When he said warehouse, I pictured an old factory, but this place has more of an old bank vault vibe to it.
As much as I want to appreciate the rest of the house, I head straight for the kitchen. It’s a long, galley-style kitchen, which makes sense in a space like this, where everything is open, without walls to divide up or make sense of it.
I like that even though the condo has an industrial vibe, the kitchen is made with rustic white cabinets and butcher block wood countertops. The stove—omg, the stove—is mint green with legs, and it looks like you’d have to put wood in it to cook or get heat, but I know it has to be gas or electric. I get a load of the fridge, which matches the stove in its seafoam-minty awesomeness. My heart might have exploded out of my chest if I had seen this on a regular day.
As it is, all I can manage to mutter is a thin and strangled, “Ice. Please.”
“Are you sure we should ice it?” Mont quickly puts away the to-go containers in the fridge. Then, he pulls out this strange contraption and shuts the top freezer. It takes me pretty much a minute to swallow thickly and get over my fear of this whole process enough to realize it’s one of those ice molds that makes giant round ice spheres. “Maybe we should look it up.”
“I don’t have time,” I groan.
He looks like he’s going to pass out. “I should have taken you to the hospital.”
“No! Okay, fine. Look it up.”
He places the ice on the counter and pulls out his phone while I stand here, trying not to pass out from the throbbing. Or more like booming. I feel like that hornet got under my skin and is still there, making a home out of my boob.
“It says to make sure the sting is clean, then apply ice, but wrap it so it prevents frostbite, and only do it for about five to ten minutes. Then, give it a break before putting the ice back, but only repeat it three to four times.”
“That sounds like a lot of instructions.”
He passes me the ice mold. His hands shake, and he looks pale. “Just let me know if you need help.”
“Need help? I can’t look! If I look, I might pass out!”
“God. Okay. Okay, I…god.”
He starts shaking so hard that I can see his teeth about to chatter.
“How about I lay down on the couch? I’ll undo my dress and look, and if I faint, then at least I’m already lying down. You can revive me with something smelly.”
“Smelling salts? I don’t think I have any of those.”
“Old socks?” I suggest.
He looks down at his feet.
My brain does a recalibration of the drive. Before he started the car, he must have put his boots back on with sandy and wet feet. No socks. I don’t see them sticking out. He’s also still soaking wet, but some of that water must have been absorbed into his car. No, the seats are leather. Would that absorb anything? Slim chance. His jeans weren’t that dark before or that pressed to his skin. His shirt fits extremely snug now. I get another hot flash that runs the course of my body, and it makes my nipple hurt more.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been so panicked about the sting that I didn’t even think. You should go change. And shower. You’re probably drenched with saltwater from head to toe. Your poor car.”
“The car’s fine. I’ll wipe it out later,” Mont assures me.
“You could get it detailed.”
“If anything is wrecked, I’ll send it somewhere where people are good at fixing it. No worries.” He swallows hard, and is it my imagination, or do his eyes get a little bit darker and more smolder-y? “It’s you I’m worried about.”
I take the ice mold and hold out my hand. “Do you have a towel? I’ll be okay.” But he doesn’t move. He’s frozen. I have to get ice on the sting sometime in this century. “Mont?”
“Yes,” he mumbles as he grabs the tea towel off the oven handle and thrusts it into my palm. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll just be down the hall. Showering. If you need anything, please don’t scream, as someone might call the cops. I’ll hear you even at a normal speaking volume. It’s surprising how sound travels in a place that has no walls.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, though honestly, probably not. Chances are slim.
He hesitates, and I give him as much of a fake smile as I can muster. It probably looks like a lopsided pumpkin face two weeks past Halloween, but he eventually walks down the hallway, leaving me alone.