Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46792 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46792 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
“We’ll get through this,” Rowan says as we approach my car. “You’re not alone.”
That’s exactly what I need right now. I’m questioning myself more than ever because the man I’ve convinced myself is all wrong for me is the only one who seems to do everything just right.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rowan
It’s hell seeing Cam like this. Her smile is gone, replaced by a haunted, anxious expression that hits me like a punch in the gut every time I look at her.
“If it tastes as good as it smells, I may devour half the pan.” She gives me a half smile from the other end of her couch.
She’s wrapped up in a light-gray blanket, the pasta I had delivered to her baking in the oven.
“Hey, lemme have one of your feet,” I say.
She arches a brow. “Like forever? Are you planning to cut it up and eat it or masturbate to it?”
I grin. “There she is. That sense of humor can’t be kept down. It’ll be a temporary arrangement. Just a foot massage.”
She puts her back against the end of the couch and slides one foot out from beneath the blanket. I scoot down and set it on my lap, moving the bottom of her pant leg up a few inches.
“Ohh.” She lets out a vocal sigh of satisfaction as I start rubbing her arch. “I wore very tall booties to work today, so forgive the moaning sounds.”
Shit. I can already feel my cock stiffening just from having my hands on her bare skin. I grab a throw pillow, lift her leg slightly and set the pillow on my lap, lowering her foot onto it.
“Comfortable?” I ask her.
“Either way is comfortable.”
I’ll stick with the way that doesn’t give away my boner. Cam plus moaning does not equal a flaccid dick for me.
“Hopefully going back to prison is enough of a deterrent to keep him away from us,” she murmurs as I massage her arch.
It enrages me that this asshole who has already taken so much from Cam is getting out of prison early. He only stopped stalking her because Dom caught him. I hate to imagine where things could have ended up without Dom.
“I’ll find him and let him know he’s not gonna make it to prison if he messes with you again.”
She hums a soft response, smiling slightly. “Don’t get yourself into trouble. It’s not worth it.
“Don’t say that. You’re worth it.”
“I don’t want you going to prison, though. Who would massage my feet and keep me supplied with Sweet Tarts?”
I look down to the other end of the couch, catching her eye. And this time, I let my thoughts come out of my mouth.
“You’re a killer combination of sexy and cute, you know. I haven’t been able to think about any other woman in a long time.”
“You’re a pretty killer combination yourself. But I find different things sexy at twenty-nine than I did at twenty-one. I want the fairy tale...or nothing.”
I run my hand over her ankle and she closes her eyes, looking relaxed.
“Don’t you believe in falling in love?” I ask. “Instead of just deciding immediately that a man checks every one of your practical boxes and is, therefore, a satisfactory man to say you love?”
I slide her pant leg up further, gently massaging her calf. Her teeth sink into her lower lip for just a second before she responds.
“Despite everything, I do believe in falling in love,” she says softly. “But I’m not so sure you do.”
I turn my eyes away from hers. “Love is just a word. I think people should be judged on their actions.”
She opens her mouth to respond, stopped by the beeping of the timer on her oven. When she slides her foot from the pillow to the ground, I immediately miss the closeness of her.
“To be continued,” she says, smiling at me over her shoulder as she walks toward the kitchen.
“The foot massage or the conversation?”
“Both. I hope.”
I’m like a faithful dog, following her everywhere she goes. Content to just be in her presence. I like our friendship a lot. But I wouldn’t be so drawn to her for so long if we were only meant to be friends.
“Let me get that,” I offer when she opens the oven.
I use the oven mitts on the counter to grab the heavy aluminum pan of ravioli from the oven rack, setting it on top of the stove.
“I could have done a better job communicating with you at the end of our first date,” she says. “And after that. I’m sorry.”
I lean a hip on the counter, wanting to be closer to her even though only a few feet separate us.
“Will you let me start over?” I ask. “Can I take you on a second first date?”
She pours more wine into her nearly empty glass. “What do you want, Rowan? With me?”