Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60931 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Resting my forearms on the counter, I narrow my eyes and lower my voice. “What’s your angle?”
“My angle?” He presses submit on the waiver and tries to slice through my distrust with his signature perfect-teeth grin.
“What do you want from me? Even spoiled rich kids like you have some ulterior motive for paying for a nonexistent service beyond just the fact that you can.”
“I love that you call me a kid.” He rests his arms on the counter, mirroring me, forcing me to step back if I don’t want him in my personal space. Which I don’t.
Not in my personal space.
Not in my book club.
Not in my apartment building.
And not in my place of business.
“Is this…” his eyes narrow when he cocks his pretty little head to the side “…about the book?”
“Pfft … don’t be ridiculous. Your opinion means nothing to me.”
“Great. Then let’s do this. I expect less talking and more climbing for a thousand an hour.”
I murder him twenty ways in my head. Pull out his Shawn Mendes hair. Kick in his sparkly teeth. Jab sharp objects into his wandering eyes. And slap the grin right off his face. “I’m going to stand at a safe distance with my hands in my pockets. If you fall, I’m not moving an inch. It’s called watching … not spotting.”
He smirks. That’s it—just that infuriating smile.
I follow him to the cubbies.
“How long have you climbed?” he asks while shoving his bare feet into his climbing shoes.
I return a blink. That’s all he’s getting from me—a slow, lifeless blink.
“I’ve climbed since I was fourteen,” he says.
Here you go, buddy … another no-shit-given blink.
“Thanks for asking.” His kissable—
Gah! NOT kissable.
His dry, cracked, pus and blood-oozing lips curl into a psycho’s smirk.
Much better, Anna. Stay focused.
“I didn’t ask.” I shrug.
“But you should have. It’s the polite thing to do, and that’s how conversations work.” Eric stands a solid six inches taller than me.
His proximity forces me to smell him. I wish he smelled like an old gym bag, but he doesn’t. My nose could easily bury itself in the crook of his neck and get high off his subtle spicy scent.
Instead of breathing through my nose, I part my lips and read the words on his T-shirt. If you were a bouldering problem, I’d flash you.
“I wore this shirt for you.”
My eyes hurt from rolling them so much. “More climbing, less talking.”
Over the next hour, Eric flashes every problem in the gym. We need to set more challenging routes.
“You’re an ass,” I murmur as he peels off his shoes.
“Why am I an ass? I didn’t fall on you … not once. And I didn’t talk to you.”
“You paid a thousand dollars to force me to watch you show off … easily climb every single problem.”
He closes his chalk bag. “It’s my mating dance.”
My jaw clenches. After a few seconds, my lips quiver as the life-or-death need to not laugh, not show my amusement, becomes unbearable. “I have to get back to work.” I speed walk to the empty yoga room and hide around the corner, covering my mouth to hide my smile and stifling my laughter.
“So you did like my mating dance.”
I jump, angling my body away from Eric’s while keeping my hand over my face. My pulse doubles, and my heart beats so loudly I bet he can hear it march to the metronome of my attraction to him. “Go home. I’m not impressed by … by anything about you.”
“No? Then why are your cheeks so pink?”
“They’re not.” I press my palms to my damp face.
I glance up.
Shit.
Our gazes meet in the mirror.
My eyes constrict into tiny slits at his reflection, and he always wears an expression like he’s ruminating about something I just said or did.
“Anna, they’ve been pink since I removed my shirt halfway through climbing all the routes.” He shrugs. “Don’t be embarrassed. If you took off your shirt, I’d overheat too.”
“You are so arrogant.”
“You liked my mating dance, didn’t you?”
Why? Why must he say that? It’s impossible to maintain a straight face when he says mating dance. “Please stop saying that.” I bite my lips together.
He saunters toward me, backing me into the corner of the room. “Mating dance?” Mr. Arrogant cocks his head a fraction, lips turning to a wolfish grin.
“Stop.” My whole face contorts to hide my amusement. My legs squeeze together to hide other reactions to him, his bare chest, low-hanging climbing pants, and …
No!
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day we met.”
“Shut up,” I murmur just above a whisper, a little breathy as I dip my chin toward my chest.
“We were destined to reach this moment. The flirty glances, the sexual banter, the coffee date, you and your not-so-subtle nudging me, and my mating dance.”
Laughter spills from deep in my chest. I can no longer hold it together. “Go. Home! You’re an idiot. The opposite of sexy is a man saying the words ‘mating dance’ unless he’s narrating something for National Geographic.” I cover my face and shake my head.