Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I don’t believe he possesses social awareness. If he did, he would have taken one look at my face and gone away with his big, beautiful half-naked bod.
“Okay. Well.” I shift in my chair, placing my hands on the desk, clasping them the way I do at school when I’m speaking to a student. “If you could put the list on the counter near the door, that would be lovely.”
His mouth twitches. “Lovely.”
I nod. “Yes. Lovely.”
Stop saying lovely, Posey. You sound like a puritan.
I’m wearing a polka-dot dress, for Pete's sake, but it’s one my students love. Monday, I have a crayon skirt I wear for art days, but I’m rethinking the entire thing—the last thing I want is to accidentally run into him while I’m leaving and have him catch me wearing a skirt with scribbles.
Not that it matters what he thinks.
I push a hair out of my heated face, blood rising to my cheeks.
“Anything else?” I don’t glance up.
“Nope.” He shifts on his heels, still silently watching me. “’Preciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” I pause, fiddling with the cup holder on my desk that holds my highlighters. “I’ll change out of my work clothes, then make a trip to the store.”
Duke seems to hesitate. “Maybe I should come with.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be hiding from fans and the paparazzi?”
“First of all, we’re in the middle of nowhere.” This town has a population of fifty thousand people—that’s hardly nowhere. “Secondly, you might miss somethin’ on my list.”
“I promise you, I won’t miss anything on your list.” Your precious, precious list.
He’s skeptical. “I have a specific kind of protein bars I like. I won’t eat a substitution.”
I set down my highlighter cup. “You are eight feet tall. Everyone is going to recognize you.”
“False. I’m six-foot-four, and I’ll wear a disguise. No one will be expectin’ to see me, so no one will know it’s me.”
I say that sentence a few times in my head, trying to make sense of it: no one will be expectin’ to see me, so no one will know it’s me.
Okay then. “I’d really rather go myself.”
He crosses his arms over his bare chest.
It’s dry now but still wet somehow.
“I’d really rather go along.”
“I think you’re only saying you want to go along because I just told you I’d rather go alone.”
He seems to be considering this and nods. “Yeah, prolly.”
“Then we seem to be at an impasse because I’m the only one with a vehicle.”
I cross my arms, too.
“I’ll go put clothes on,” he says at last, shrugging off the doorjamb and closing the door behind him.
“I didn’t say you could come!” I shout at the door, face still red, the words I just yelled at him echoing in my brain. I didn’t say you could come.
Come.
“Oh my God.” I groan. “You do not have sex on the brain.”
Yes, you do.
“Fine. I do.” Standing, I shove back from my desk. “Tonight, I’m downloading a dating app. This is ridiculous.”
I’ve been single long enough. Yes, I’ve gone on a few dates but nothing to write home about and nothing more than first dates. No seconds.
Bad, embarrassing dates.
Fuck boys, mostly. Guys who want to get laid without the commitment, which is all fine and good if a person is into that…but I’m looking for something long-term.
I think.
Back in my bedroom, I nervously stand in front of the closet debating—for far too long—over a man who is infuriating and wasn’t supposed to be any trouble, was supposed to make himself scarce, read in the yard, perhaps make himself useful with projects?
Instead, he’s treated me like a personal assistant, scared the crap out of me, and interrupted my private time, with more to come of it, I’m sure.
Especially after I snuck up on him in the shower and gave him a taste of his own medicine.
Ha.
He deserved it.
I chuckle, then pull off my dress, tossing it on the floor in a wash pile, missing the hamper completely.
Honestly, housekeeping isn’t my forte.
Baking, yes.
Cleaning, no.
I can’t stand here all afternoon trying to figure out how to dress for this outing with Duke; I should have already slid myself into a pair of leggings and a hoodie and been done with it. But that’s not what I wear.
Nope.
My vanity won’t allow it.
He may be an annoyance, but he’s a good-looking guy with a deep voice and Southern accent, who looks as if he could bench press me with one arm tied behind his back.
So I pull on a pair of jeans, pull a snug white T-shirt over my head, and slide a red headband over my hair that has a pretty bow at the side.
White sneakers.
A little bit of red lipstick I’m sure he’ll notice and be rude enough to comment on because the man seems to notice and comment on everything…
White T-shirt?
Blah.
I look like a schoolteacher.