Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I melt against him. A tiny corner of my mind is startled by this, but all thought vanishes at the warmth of his broad, muscular chest. Brax’s hand shifts around to cup the back of my neck, his other hand settling at the small of my back.
The pressure of his lips increases. My nipples go stiff, and a deep ache starts down low. A moan escapes me, and it’s that sound that shocks me out of the haze that’s clouded my mind.
I shrink back, confused and angry at myself at the same time.
Who does this? Who responds this way to a simple kiss?
Who resists a kiss from someone as wonderful as Brax?
Me, apparently. I’m on the verge of tears as I shake my head, apologetic but unable to meet his eyes. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
He steps back, hands raised in innocence. “I’m sorry. I thought you…”
A quick glance confirms that he’s bewildered. Of course he is. I’m sure he’s never met anyone as ridiculous as me.
“I’m just going to go. I’m sorry.” I snatch one of the coffee cups, not sure whether it’s his or mine, and slip into my car as quickly as possible, blinking rapidly to try to keep from crying until I’m out of sight.
The last thing I see before moisture blurs my vision is Brax, such a beautiful, strong, solid man, frowning in confusion as I speed away.
I’ve ruined everything.
AVA
Back at my apartment complex, I sit in silence in my car, waiting until I’m confident I can make it inside without crying again.
The sun, on its descent to the horizon, is shining brightly through my side window, warming my skin. A bird nearby is singing sweetly, and a honeyed floral scent drifts in on the fresh spring breeze.
All of these happy things are completely at odds with my mood, which is bleak as the dead of winter.
I reach for my phone a couple of times, because typically when I’m experiencing turmoil, I’d work through it with a friend, but in this case, I can’t. All of my friends would be in shock at what I’d have to tell them, half of them for very different reasons than the other half.
I am an idiot.
I spent the ride home beating myself up, and I don’t want to think about it anymore. Not right now, anyway.
After checking my eyes in the rear view mirror, I decide I’m ready to go in. It’s unfortunately a busy time at the complex; people have been coming and going during the ten minutes or so that I’ve been sitting here, and I don’t want to draw attention from anyone, but I think it’s not too obvious I’ve been crying.
In the lobby, I pass by my mailbox without stopping, toss the still-full, now-cold coffee cup in the trash, and let out a breath when I get the elevator to myself.
When I get out on my floor, there’s a figure walking away down the hall, and I instantly recognize the tall frame. “Erik?”
My old friend, who’s also now a neighbor in this building, turns and gives me a grin that puts a pretty good dent in my wall of gloom. “Ava, I was just knocking on your door.”
“Oh, yes, I was out,” I say, stating the obvious in that awkward way people do when they don’t know what else to say.
“I’m ordering delivery and came to see if you wanted to share.” As soon as he closes the distance between us, his brow furrows in concern. “Are you okay?”
I guess my eyes don’t look as normal as I thought, or maybe my friend is just too perceptive. “I’m fine.” I put on a bigger smile. “What are you ordering?”
He still looks suspicious, but to my relief, he doesn’t pry. “I’m torn between Mexican, Vietnamese, or sushi.”
“That’s quite a range.” I unlock my door and step inside, incredibly grateful for the distraction of this meal-sharing invitation. “Want to come in?”
We both slip off our shoes, I offer him something to drink, and we discuss the options, eventually deciding on miso soup and a selection of sushi rolls to share, since we’ve both had Mexican and Vietnamese more recently.
Erik keeps looking into my eyes for longer than usual, like he’s trying to read me, so I busy myself in the kitchen, getting down dishes, bowls, chopsticks, and small dishes for soy sauce. I don’t like to eat straight out of delivery containers when I’m at home.
“How was your day?” he asks as he slides onto a stool at the counter that faces into my small kitchen.
I’ve been doing my best to forget about my day, but his question instantly brings back my embarrassment and regret, neither of which had been too far from my mind anyway.
“It was fine,” I manage to say, hoping I sound convincing. “I went to church this morning …”