Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
He lifts a dubious brow. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say, then emphatically, I add, “I believe you.”
He drags his palm along my throat, his thumb pressing lightly against the hollow of it as he says, “Don’t underestimate ibuprofen. Or the thoughtfulness of the fruit. Or watching me play.” He runs the pad in a half-circle along my heated skin. “Or video game tips.” He breathes out hard, then shoots me a lopsided smile. “Fuck, I love those tips. Do you know I play video games to unwind? It relaxes me before games. And after games.”
I had no idea, but this info delights me. “I didn’t know that.”
“I kind of get lost in video games, and now you’ve helped me play them better,” he says, and he’s sharing this so easily while touching me so seductively, while talking to me as a friend.
I feel so reassured and unmoored all at once.
His hand roams back up me so that his fingers brush one side of my jaw, his thumb the other. After a long, lingering beat, he takes a breath then says, in the most vulnerable voice, “There’s…some promo material Everly sent me. A PDF. For an upcoming event we’re doing in Las Vegas. It’s kind of long. I had the computer read it to me, but I want to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”
My heart clutches. I get it. What he’s saying. What I can do for him. “Can I read it for you too? As a backup.” It comes out more eager than I’d expected. But I’m giddy for the chance.
He nods. “I’ll send it to you.”
“Want me to do it now?” I ask breathily, eager to help.
He shakes his head, smiling softly. “You should go to work,” he says. “We can go over it tomorrow. I leave around noon for our road trip. We can do it after we have dessert for breakfast.” He’s still staring at me with his eyes blazing. “Unless you’re backing out of number four?”
It’s hardly a question. It’s more…a challenge.
My chest floods with warmth as I shake my head. “I’m not.” But that’s hardly enough, so I add, “Thank you. I needed that.”
“I had a feeling,” he says, then his tongue darts out, catching the corner of his mouth.
I watch the tip, my body going up in flames.
His smile is downright wicked as he says, “About what you said last night. I appreciate you looking out for me, but just because I follow a regimen doesn’t mean I’m rigid.”
“I’m learning that about you,” I admit quietly, grateful he flew down the stairs and came to me.
“Good.” He’s silent for a moment, his mouth tight, then he adds, “I don’t always let people see me.”
I hear him, and I hear the subtext too—he’s letting me in. “They see you as easygoing and a hard worker.”
“Yes,” he admits.
“But there’s so much more to you than that.”
He just shrugs, but it’s an admission of sorts. Impulsively, I rise up on tiptoes, clasp his face, and run my thumb along his scruff-lined jaw.
I’m giving something to him—touch. Just like he gave to me.
My thumb traces his jawline. I’m slow and lingering. And even though the clock is ticking, I watch him, savoring every detail. The way his eyes close slowly, how his lashes brush against his face, how a slight tremble seems to run down his body.
But before I let go, he grips my wrist, turns his face to it, and opens those heat-filled eyes, holding my gaze. He brushes the gentlest kiss to my wrist.
I gasp.
It’s a whisper of a kiss, and yet it’s everything. He leaves another, taking his time pressing his lips to my forearm, then one more, and his tongue flicks against my flesh. And finally, he gives a deeper, open-mouthed caress of a kiss from my elbow all the way down to my palm.
Chills erupt down my spine. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I am undone.
He drops my hand. “You should go,” he says firmly, his tone making it clear I need to leave for me and also for him. Because if I stay, the kiss won’t end.
With a reluctant nod, I tear myself away, open the door, and race down the steps, feeling like tomorrow isn’t a date.
It’s something else entirely.
Something I can’t even name. But something I want desperately down to my very bones.
It’s not a date. It’s the next step in this unusual friendship. Still, makeup is always a good idea. In the morning I put on a cute sundress with pockets, twist my hair into an artful messy bun, slide on some mascara, and, of course, my signature lipstick. I tuck the tube into my pocket and head to the kitchen to do some prep, like preheating the oven and prepping the pastry strips. Fifteen minutes later, footsteps echo on the stairs.