Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
In a corner, there’s a hat rack that holds dozens of feather boas in precious jewel colors. Juliet snatches a ruby-red one and tosses it around her neck.
She spins around, juts out a hip, and says, “Why don’t you come up and see me sometime?”
Then, with her lips tilting up in a sensual smile, she simply waits for my answer—waits and lets her hand graze down her chest.
Is she aware of how enticing that move is?
I answer her with a husky, “Yes.”
Yes, she’s sexy. Yes, she’s sunshine. She’s funny and witty, and she takes zero shit from me. And, yes, once upon a brief time, she was mine.
I’ve handled that in the city, even working with her. Now that we’re out of town, I need to do a much better job of managing this…lust.
Yes, that’s it.
It’s basic, simple lust. I can handle lust.
“All right,” I say. “We’ve got mirrored bunk beds, feather boas, and costumes, and we haven’t even gotten past the main bedroom. What else do you suppose we have?”
At least finding out gives me an excuse to get the hell out of the danger zone without looking like I’m running away.
Twenty minutes later, my head is spinning. I didn’t know a house could be this sultry. But this one vibrates and hums with pheromones. From the sitting room with the satin chaise lounges and wet bar to the den with the vintage oak desk and black-and-white photos of Hollywood legends in their sexiest poses, everything about this home whispers, Let’s go to bed.
It’s like the home is a goddamn aphrodisiac. I tug on my shirt as I go from room to room, getting hot under the collar. I tap notes into my cell phone—Things to Take Care Of. A few of the rooms need a new coat of paint. You can’t sell a home with burgundy, cherry, and fuchsia walls. The kitchen’s in good shape, but it’s next-level cluttered.
We’ve been through almost the whole home. All that’s left is the second bedroom, at the end of a hallway, and I stalk forward to claim it. I’m going to need some serious distance from Juliet in those mirrored bunk beds, looking sleepy and sexy as she drifts off.
I tug the door open and groan.
Fuck me. It’s unfurnished. Not a single thing is in the room.
Juliet comes up right behind me. “Oh. That’s odd. There’s so much stuff everywhere else.”
“Yeah,” I say hoarsely. She’s so fucking close to me, I can smell her vanilla-honey scent.
She shrugs cheerily. “See, aren’t you glad adult-size bunk beds exist? We can share a bed, and it won’t be weird. Do you want to be on the top or the bottom?”
I stare at her, trying to form an answer that won’t give away all my resurrected dirty thoughts. Top, bottom, it’s all good.
I grunt something unintelligible, and she furrows her brow. “What did you say?”
Fuck. Shit. “Hungry,” I say roughly, sounding like a caveman instead of just thinking like one.
She snort-laughs. “Or maybe hangry. You always do get cranky when you’re peckish. Anyway, I’ll take the bottom. You take the top.” Then she tilts her head, tapping her chin. “Come to think of it, I might be headed toward hangry too. But I really want to look through those sequined dresses.”
She breezes off, and I catch her scent as she goes.
I tug on my shirt collar again. Yeah, this won’t be weird at all.
Think fast, Monroe.
“I’m going to grab some dinner for us, okay? I can bring it back here and we can work on a to-do list.”
“Sounds good,” she calls, and I fly out the door.
6
SPICE TOLERANCE
Monroe
My phone trills as soon as I put the car in drive. Yes! A distraction. If it’s a spam call peddling new self-employed insurance, I’ll take it. I might even listen because, hello, healthcare is a buzzkill, and I’ll do anything to murder this buzz right now.
I answer without looking to see who’s calling.
“Blackstone here,” I bark as I head toward the road, the gravel crunching under the tires.
“Oh, I thought I was calling Doctor Blackstone. I’ll hang up and try again.”
It’s Carter, my good friend and next-door neighbor, and he’ll serve as a perfect distraction. “I don’t often answer the phone with Doctor.”
“Yeah, you do,” he says.
“I don’t,” I insist.
“You do. Don’t argue with me, I have recordings.”
I peel out of the driveway and onto the road. “You don’t.”
“Always keep the receipts, man,” he answers, making me chuckle as I cruise the winding road away from the unexpected resurgence of annoying desire.
“Anyhoo,” Carter says. “I’m at your place, and what the hell? How many deliveries do you get?”
I’d asked him to bring in any packages I receive, so they won’t pile up in the lobby while I’m gone. “Not that many,” I say defensively.
“You’ve been gone less than a day, and there’s already a ton of boxes.”