Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
When she looks back, she asks, “Were you checking me out?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth opens as if no man tells her the truth—she’s fucking sexy. “Oh, um . . .” A shake of her head appears to remind her of what she was saying. “Anyway . . .”
“Are you done for the day?”
Shifting her bag as if the load is too heavy to bear for much longer, she holds it in front of her. I reach out, slipping my hand next to hers, my roughness against her softness. Neither of us moves, the connection making my heart thunder in my chest so loudly I wonder if she can hear it. I’d forgotten what this felt like while on tour. The way the simplest things with her—sandwiches at the beach, joking like old friends do, the thrill of spending time with someone who makes you feel alive again—are magnified to make life exciting.
“Shane!”
I’m startled from falling into her soulful eyes any deeper. “What?”
Releasing the bag, she reaches for my forehead. Oh, that. “What happened?”
“A run-in with a fist. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“That definitely sounds like something to worry about.” With the tips of her fingers gently running over the bruised area, she lifts on her toes and looks me in the eyes. Or tries to. She’s still a few inches short of her goal. “Yeeps.”
“Yeeps? That’s a new one.”
She laughs, but it’s light under the circumstances. “Have you iced the area?”
“More than I wanted.”
Still studying the wound, she hums. “That’s good.” And then she looks at me, and asks, “Do you have a concussion?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m still concussed.”
When she drops onto her heels, the worry in her medically trained eyes has me wondering if I fucked up. “You should be at home resting.”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to rest.”
“When did it happen?”
“Saturday.”
“You’re past the watch and worry stage, for the most part.” Her gentle touch stroking my skin has me leaning closer to her. Her fingertips give comfort, and her concern for me makes me feel. It makes me feel something I haven’t in a long time—cared for. Discomfort quickly shades the good, and I lean back again. “I’m fine.”
I’m given a tight smile and a nod of reassurance. “You’ll be okay, but you need to get home and rest. How long are you in LA?”
“Other than the shows, all I’ve been doing is resting. I was hoping you were free not to rest tonight.”
“Like all night?” Her pink lips part into a smile again. “Free to do what?”
I thought about this woman every day I was away from her, so I’ll take any time she spares me. “How about dinner?”
The smile falters, but her eyes never leave mine. “Are you asking me on a date, Shane?”
“No.” I’m a fucking liar.
“Oh. That’s right.”
“What’s right?”
She taps a finger to her head as if it’s all coming back to her. “You’re not a relationship guy.”
Why’d I say that shit? Nothing like having your words used against you. “When I said that—”
“You don’t have to hide who you are with me. We’re friends. That’s a good place to be and probably best for us,” she says, sounding committed to the idea. Taking her bag from me, she then steps back. “If you’re up for dinner, we can discuss my research on the divorce situation.”
The tides turned quickly in my favor, but I’d forgotten about the divorcing her part. I don’t like the taste of it, much less the sound of the words. I still won’t say no. “Where should we go?”
“Based on your current condition, how about my place? I don’t live too far from here. Beats sitting in traffic.”
I hadn’t thought about her place, her living somewhere, since I’ve only seen her here and a few other public locations. But now I can’t wait to see where she lives. “Sure does.”
She starts walking backward, I assume to her car. “Do you like Chinese food?”
“Love it.”
“I’ll text my address.” She stops, strands blowing across her face, looking more beautiful in the sunshine than I’ve ever seen her. “It’s not fancy, okay? Just a little apartment.”
Like a gut punch, the shame hits hard. Is that what she thinks of me, that I would judge her by where she lives? Or is she lowering my expectations? Either way, I feel like shit that she felt the need to even say it. “I’m not judging, Cat.”
“I’m only preparing you. There aren’t the fancy accoutrements you’re used to. No incredible views except of the parking lot. No great living spaces. We’ll be cramped, especially you, big guy.” Big guy? Why does that sound so seductive coming from her mouth?
She turns her back but throws me a wave in the air, walking to her car. I watch to make sure she gets in safely before returning to the Ferrari.
The address pops up in a text, and I map it out to meet her there. Deep down, I can’t wait to see where she calls home. I bet it smells like her—the sweet vanilla mixed with a citrus twist. She reminds me of summers at the beach and some of my best days. I can only imagine being surrounded by her belongings and seeing what she chooses to display. Is she messy at home and only put together for work? What’s in her fridge?