Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“Nah,” Lucas says. “You can just replace the glass and keep the frame. I might know a thing or two about that.” He offers me an easy smile, warm and reassuring, that makes his eyes crease at the corners. “Let me take care of it, Miss Delilah.”
What. Is. Happening?
There’s a touch of warmth slipping through me and spreading. “Lucas, why would you—”
“Because it needs to be done, New York, and I can. You need a better reason?” Lucas answers without hesitation, but there’s a certain steeliness in his voice that makes it feel like something else.
I start to say something—until Ulysses clears his throat behind us.
Oof.
I jump, instinctively clutching at my arms.
I almost forgot he was there.
“Since that’s taken care of,” he says sharply, “shall we finish this move before the evening sun burns us to a crisp?”
Welp. Captain Poshness is back.
Lucas and I trade amused, almost conspiratorial glances and stand. He’s still holding my photo frame like it means as much to him as it does to me.
“He’s right. C’mon,” I say, tossing my head toward the house. “I’ll find something to wrap that up, and then I’ll get you guys something cold to drink.”
“Delightful,” Ulysses clips.
I shoot him an odd look.
What’s he so annoyed about?
God, I swear, men are just weird sometimes.
Alien creatures from Mars.
But there’s nothing alien about Lucas’ grin as he follows me up the porch, both of us skipping conspicuously over the one loose step that tried to dump me on my butt.
“Got any more of that beer?” he asks hopefully.
8
Red Sky At Morning (Lucas)
I don’t think Miss Delilah’s a morning person.
When I show up at her house bright and early the next day, holding my tools, she’s still in her pajamas when she answers the door.
If you can call that outfit pajamas.
Gym shorts saved from being panties by half an inch of flimsy fabric skimming her upper thighs, the curve of her hips threatening to break through, too many glimpses of the lower creases of her ass.
Plus, an oversized tank top that’s only saved from completely falling off her by those generous hips, offering glimpses of smooth curves, dusky skin, a black sports bra.
Her hair’s a damn mess, too, falling all over her in this black fountain.
My cock instantly hijacks the rest of me.
Of course, she’s unfazed with all the skin she’s flashing as she blinks at me sleepily, yawning and dragging her hair back from her face.
“Lucas? What time is it?”
“Seven a.m. Rise and shine.”
I pry my gaze away from her shoulder.
Something about the way that tempting hint of black bra strap against her skin fucks with me hardcore.
I get like that with pretty women, I guess.
Just like any other guy, I home in like a hungry dog on long legs, curves, lush breasts, kissable lips. She’s sure as hell got every last one of those assets in spades.
I also wind up noticing the little things.
The curve of her shoulder.
The teasing dip of her collarbone and the way her lips flutter when she wets them.
The tender hollow on the underside of her wrist, so sensitive to ruthless kisses.
Fuck me blind.
It’s those little things that make me trip on a woman damn hard.
Blame it on being a cop. Being trained to notice all the finer points, even when I try not to.
Even when I’ve got zero business getting stuck on Delilah Clarendon and falling down a bottomless abyss of pure lust.
“Want me to come back later?” I force my gaze over her shoulder.
“It’s fine. I should’ve set my alarm anyway. Normally, I wake up with the sunrise, but usually I’m not this worn out.” In my peripheral vision, she lets out another lengthy yawn.
The way she stretches up on her toes with her arms over her head cuts me in two.
Little Miss Everything leaving Little Miss Nothing to a man’s imagination.
Then she turns away, the lash of her hair beckoning me.
“I’ll put on some coffee. How do you like it?”
Darlin’, you’re fucking it.
“Black,” I grunt out, following her inside and hooking the door with my ankle to pull it shut behind me.
We left the living room a war zone of piled boxes and overflowing laundry baskets yesterday—but to say it’s a disaster now is an understatement.
God. Damn.
Just boxes splayed open for days like they exploded, their contents bursting out all over the place.
Clothes. Appliances. Books.
I think there’s a laptop buried in there somewhere, but it’s hard to tell surrounded by a nest of USB cables and other cords.
Old DVDs. Guess she’s not much for streaming.
A PS5 game system.
I stop, blinking at that one.
“You play?” I ask.
She’s disappeared into the kitchen and now she leans back out, following my line of sight and laughing.
“The kids in my last teaching residency got me pretty hooked.” Her voice goes a little distant as she ducks into the kitchen again. “You can put your stuff down, by the way. What is all that?”