Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I’m fine.” She refused to glance in his direction.
She, unlike him, was but a mere mortal.
Hope tightened her hold on the mug handle and finished her slow trek to the kitchen. Naomi was finishing up in there, tutting when she laid eyes on Hope. Her gaze flickered behind her before returning to her face.
“Honey, you need to be off that leg.”
“I’ll be in a chair soon enough.”
“You’ll be in bed.” Low and authoritative, his words rolled over her.
Naomi plucked the cup from her hand and made herself scarce with a knowing look. Mitchell took her place. Damn he was big. Not fat big, just strong big.
She licked her lips, conscious she wore his clothes. “I’m sleeping down here.”
Mitchell crossed muscular arms over his broad chest. This wasn’t a man with a lean runner’s body. Not at all. He was big but moved with a grace she couldn’t manage even on her best day, which this wasn’t.
“There a bed down here I don’t know about?”
“No. I’ll be by the fire.”
“You’re right.”
She blinked. “I am?”
“The no was correct. We have a room. You’ll be up there. In bed.”
“Look.” She reached out to touch his chest and swore. “Christ. Is anything soft on you?” It took her a moment to realize she’d been stroking his chest. Heat flushed as she thought about her words and what she was doing to him.
His expression never wavered but his brown eyes deepened. “No.”
So many ways to take that. She gulped.
“I mean,” she stopped touching him, “you paid for the room. I know you don’t want to share with me.”
His jaw clenched ever so briefly. “Would you like help up the stairs or am I carrying you?”
Hope stared at him. There was no maliciousness in him that she could sense. She liked to think of herself as a fairly good judge of character.
“No need for that. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
He moved closer, allowing his scent to weave around her, bringing a small amount of comfort and a whole lot of desire. Was it right for a man to smell so delicious? Was that a way to describe it? Because seriously, for a journalist, she couldn’t find another word. Well, other than masculine. Outdoorsy. Unique. Unfair to women. Look at that—she could find a few words.
“Then get to bed.”
Realizing that lying on a bed instead of hunkering down in a chair would be divine, she turned and headed to the stairs. Mitchell was with her every step of the way but he kept his hands to himself.
Pity.
She smothered her snort. A man like him dated size zeros. Not a twenty.
He reached around her and opened the door before waiting for her to enter first. The click of the door reverberated through her.
“Bed and expose your knee.” He brushed by her. Hope perched gingerly on the edge of the king bed. Okay, so he was right, she should not have been on the knee so much. Mitchell was back and he sank to his knees before reaching for her leg. She’d not even tugged up her pants for him to see.
When his gaze slashed to her, she realized she’d not kept her whisper of pain contained. He lifted the pant leg, firm but gentle.
Hope stared at the top of his head. His hair was so much more than blond. A word that was so pedestrian.
Gah. What the heck was wrong with her? Had she taken pain meds that were making her loopy? Could she take some to explain away this behavior and line of thought?
She wanted to thread her fingers through the strands. They’d be like silk—smooth and cool.
Nope. Smooth, yes, and soft, but not cool. Fingers clasped her wrist and her stomach kicked. Holy shit. That hadn’t simply been a thought. She was actually stroking his head.
“Sorry,” she blurted.
He moved her hand to the bunched-up pant leg. No words but she got the gist. Hold. He rewrapped her knee with swift efficiency, his touch impersonal but tender.
“You’re good at that. Sure you’re not a doctor?”
“Positive.” He didn’t even look up at her.
“Injure yourself a lot?”
Damn it, what is wrong with me? This isn’t like me! Is it? Maybe this was her and all these years she’d been packing away her true self. After the humiliation by a man who’d been her fiancé, she had retreated and not allowed herself to get swept away again. Her relationships after Riley Fronson had almost been contractual. He’d been wealthy and, in the spotlight and when he’d broken her heart, she’d decided to focus on her career and not let love get in the way.
Or, to rationalize this situation, she more than likely felt freedom to enjoy someone who—once they left this place—she’d never see again.
“Nope.”
Great monosyllabic responses.
“Not doing Annie Wilkes things, are you?”
He paused, one large hand curling along her calf. The touch felt oddly possessive. Mitchell lifted his gaze to her. His eyes didn’t blink, didn’t waver, and her gut clenched.