Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“I know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. I know you want to fulfill the letter and make Jace proud, but you can’t get close to me.”
I hold up my hands and wriggle my fingers, breaking into a goofy grin. “I grabbed your bare bottom earlier and didn’t die. That’s probably as bad as it’s going to get, so I think we’re going to be okay.”
His eyes narrow. He looks badass and dangerous and a little bit lethal, and it takes my breath away. “Let’s never, ever talk about that again.”
“Alright. As long as you promise to never do anything that dumb again.”
“It wasn’t dumb. I had the angle perfectly calculated. I just didn’t think the stupid fucking painting would be stuck into the wall with the same kind of anchors that are used for bridge moorings.”
I walk over to the end of the plastic slide and sit down. Then, I kick off my chunky boots and dig my toes through the sand. Rick stands where he is, preternaturally still, watching me like I’m the one who is doing something risky and dangerous. I weave my fingers together on top of my knees and look at them because I feel like not staring him directly in the eyes takes some of the pressure off.
“If you don’t want to be touched, that’s okay. I respect that. But you have to try to let me help. You have to let me in. I can’t just leave here in ten days knowing you’re not okay.”
“I’m fine,” he says insistently.
“You’re not! You just said you’re dirty. That’s not okay. It hurts me to the bottom of my soul, Patrick McDonald.”
“It’s not your problem, Aspen Oak.”
It’s the first time he’s said my last name, and it doesn’t sound silly like when other people say it. Still, I’m frustrated. He is my problem. He’s so, so, SO my problem.
“Argh!” I yelp as I dig my toes too hard into the sand. Something catches—something sharp and nasty—and I gasp.
Rick is in front of me instantly, and I mean instantly. He’s on his knees in front of me, lifting up my foot and looking for injury. He holds up a small, sharp rock and tosses it aside, then spreads my toes and runs his fingers over each one.
My big toe feels like someone just rammed a spike up the nail, but other than that, the rest of me is getting mixed as fuck messages. I’m hot and cold and buzzing way too hard from those strong fingers searching me for injury and assessing the situation, ready to fix and save and protect. I want to arch my foot and lean into his touch. I want his hands to continue to my heel, up to my ankle, over my calf, up and up and up, to my knee. And then higher.
For the love of meatballs and cherry pie, I need to stop.
I’m tired, and I’m over-caffeinated. We had an almost life-or-death situation involving a bare bottom that was anything but heinous. My nerves are frayed, and so is my brain. Right now, the air feels alive between us. It feels like it’s pulsing. My sore toe is pulsing too, and there’s a good chance my clit is also going to get in on the action.
“Are you okay?” His fingers brush my toes again like they’re not all sandy and gross and toes to begin with.
“I’m fine.” I lean forward, arching in the middle until our hands meet and brushing mine over his before he jerks back. “You and Jace did the same stuff, right?”
“Yes,” he answers reluctantly.
“Do you think my brother was…contaminated? Do you think he was dirty? Do you think that wherever he is, he’s beyond redemption?”
The agony on his face is razor-sharp. It’s boiling water poured straight onto my wounds, and salt rubbed into my chest cavity. It’s impossible to take a breath. How could I have ever thought, at the first meeting when he talked about burning Jace’s letter, that I could legitimately hate this man? “No! Of course not.”
“If you both did the same job, side by side, then why should he be good to go and you not? Because he died? Because the job took his life? Purification by death?”
“That’s not fair, Aspen.”
“I know it’s not. It’s not fair to you. You’re doing yourself an injustice. You can’t heal if you keep telling yourself you’re all yucky and fucky on the inside. Fuckyucky. It might not be fair, Rick McDonald, but it is logical, and it’s good logic.”
“You’re right.” He stands slowly, all the power in his body obvious under his black clothing. “It’s late. We should be sleeping.”
“You mean I should be sleeping so we don’t have to talk about uncomfortable things anymore, and you should be prowling the house, making more piles, and pretending you’re sleeping?”