Total pages in book: 15
Estimated words: 13541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
“Just so we’re clear, I fucking love your list," I murmur anyway, clearing that up right now. "And I don’t care how far or fast you run from me, I intend to give you every damn thing on it for Christmas, pretty baby.”
Chapter Three
Caitlin
Igape at Lachlan, convinced I heard him wrong. But when he leans down, pressing his lips to mine, I realize I didn’t mishear anything. He said exactly what I thought he did.
His tongue dances along the seam of my lips in a silent demand for entry. I part them on a gasp, and he surges forward, claiming my mouth in a way that steals my breath. His lips are soft and demanding at the same time, his tongue stroking and teasing along mine as his hands tangle in my hair, angling my head.
“Fucking delicious,” he groans, nipping my bottom lip before he breaks away to grin at me.
My head spins, confusion swirling through me as I stare up at him, one hand pressed to my lips as if to seal in his minty taste.
What is happening right now?
“Come on, baby. Let’s go.” He gently pries me away from the doorframe, wrapping an arm around my waist. I stumble along at his side as he leads me out of the building to his truck. I don’t think I breathe the entire time.
I definitely don’t breathe when he wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me into his truck, practically nuzzling the side of my neck. I do whimper though. Yes, that definitely happens.
I know because he hears it and chuckles as he buckles my seatbelt.
A second later, he pulls back, leaving me in the cab of his truck with his spicy scent clouding my head and my thoughts running a million miles a minute. I can’t even keep up with them.
I’m supposed to be escaping my stupid list. This doesn’t feel like escape. It feels…a little like Lachlan trying to give me what he thinks he should.
Crap. Is that what this is? He feels obligated because I made that stupid list?
He climbs into the truck beside me, his gaze flickering in my direction. A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. “You look like you’re afraid I’m going to bite you, baby.”
“Stop,” I whisper, my throat aching.
“Stop what?”
“Stop calling me cute names.” I swallow the lump in my throat, turning to look at him. “Stop kissing me. Whatever this is, just stop, Lachlan. I didn’t give you that list so you’d give me anything on it out of pity. I'm not a charity project, and you don’t owe me any of this.”
He sits quietly for a moment, watching me. “You think that’s what this is about?”
I shrug helplessly. “I gave you that list, and now you’re kissing me, calling me cute names, and telling me that you’re going to give me everything on it. What else would it be about? It's not like I'm your type.”
He glowers at me—actually freaking glowers. “That’s really what you think? That I have a type, and I just feel sorry for you?”
Is it? Doubt whispers through me.
“I don’t know,” I whisper, glancing down at my lap. "You're confusing me."
"Why?"
"Because girls like me don't end up with guys like you, Lachlan," I huff, rolling my eyes. "Isn't that obvious? Guys who look like you go for supermodels, not their awkward, overweight assistants."
"That's bullshit, Caitlin. There's not a goddamn thing wrong with you. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm not guys like me. I'm just me. And I don't date supermodels. I haven't dated anyone in years."
"Maybe that's true, but it doesn't change the facts," I whisper, my throat raw. "I'm not your type. You never even looked in my direction until I gave you that stupid list this morning."
I feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he sighs. “I’m fucking this all up, and you’re either going to kick my ass or get a goddamn protection order before the end of the day, but fuck it,” he mutters. “We’re doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“I have things to show you.”
“What things?” I glance over at him, but he’s busy buckling in and then starting the truck. My stomach quivers at the look on his face.
Lachlan is always smiling, always teasing. He isn’t doing either of those things now. He’s intense and focused, more serious than I’ve ever seen him.
“Don’t quit on me, pretty baby,” he mutters, backing out of the parking space. “Regardless of what I show you, just don’t fucking quit on me.”
I gulp, suddenly nervous as hell as he pulls out onto the road.
We drive in silence for several minutes before I realize we’re heading toward my apartment. My brows furrow. “How do you know where I live? Did you get my address off my employment forms?”