Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76381 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“That’s okay. The further away from here, the better,” I said, hearing a door slam outside, and jumping despite myself.
“Hey,” Riff called softly, waiting until my gaze slid to his. “No one is ever going to put a hand on you again without your permission,” he vowed.
And, what’s more, I believed him.
Raff came back ten minutes later, arms loaded down with bags, and the scent of food made my stomach churn hard, despite the fact that I’d likely consumed more since knowing Riff than I had in a week.
“Vienna is going to come back with us to California,” Riff said to his brother as he started to separate out the food, making me realize just how much I’d ordered without really giving it any thought. It must have cost a small fortune.
“Yeah? Road trip buddies,” Raff said, all charm.
I appreciated how they did that. Made everything seem like it was no big deal, even if I imagined my presence complicated a lot of things for them. From food budgets to lodging, and, eventually, the situation back in California.
But I was choosing not to think about those things right then as I pulled the lid off a pile of perfectly golden French toast wedges. Then another container of a Belgian waffle topped in strawberries and bananas.
I had sides, too. Breakfast sausage, bacon, eggs, and hash browns.
It was more than I’d eaten in months. And there was no way I could eat even a third of it. But I was quick to plow in, shoving forkful after forkful into my mouth, barely getting a chance to taste the food before I was pushing more down.
It wasn’t long before my stomach was stretched to bursting, creating a pain I hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Fan of breakfast foods?” Raff asked as he shoved a slice of bacon into his mouth.
“It’s my favorite,” I admitted. “My grandma used to make a big spread every Sunday. It was my favorite day of the week.”
“Back home, we have a club brother, Detroit, best cook in the fucking state, I think,” Raff told me. “Think he could make you a spread that would make your grandma proud.”
“Do you guys cook?” I asked, glancing over toward Riff who’d polished off his whole breakfast platter. Because he had let me have all the food from the cabin.
“Never had a chance to learn,” Raff admitted. “We’re always in motel rooms. And our old man didn’t really cook. He barbecued, but that was about it. Do you cook?”
“A little,” I said, though it almost felt wrong to say that in the present tense, since I hadn’t cooked anything in months.
Riff started to clean up, tucking my leftovers into the mini fridge in the room, then gathering his clothes for a shower.
“While Riff takes a shower, I think I am gonna go run a couple of errands,” Raff said. Though I had a feeling he didn’t actually have anywhere to be, just sensed that I would feel uncomfortable alone in a motel room with him when Riff wasn’t in the same room. Which was really sweet.
In fact, being around these two men was the safest I’d felt in a long time.
So when Riff went into the bathroom, Raff went out of the door, and I got up to lock it before I got into the bed, making a cocoon with the covers, pillows, and the blanket and squishy stuffed kitten Raff had brought for me.
It was the warmest I’d felt in so long.
I felt my eyes immediately starting to get heavy.
But a few moments later, the bathroom door opened, letting out puffs of steam and the rich, woodsy scent of Riff’s soap, the same scent that was currently clinging to me.
He didn’t come out, was just trying to clear the steam, it seemed, as he stood inside the bathroom facing the mirror, dressed in a pair of low-slung, lightweight green plaid sleep pants.
The whole of that tattoo on his arm was on display, and I found myself wanting to know what else was mixed into the sleeve, if he had any silly tattoos like that slice of pizza his brother had.
From my cocoon, with nothing but my eyes and nose exposed, I found myself watching him as he dug out a toothbrush and paste, and got to work on his teeth before reaching up to run his fingers through his wet hair to push it back from his forehead.
Then, well, then he turned.
I mean, I guess I assumed he was fit. He’d effortlessly run through the woods. And he’d even carried me for hours without seeming the least bit bothered by the extra weight.
I just hadn’t seemed to think about the lean, taut muscle that might be below his clothing.
The breadth of his chest, the corded biceps, the indents of abdominal muscles, and the two cuts near his hips that disappeared into the waistband of his pants.