Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
"It's too early for this shit," I grumble.
His laughter grates on my nerves, but I know the guy means well. People who are blissed out with their own happiness always seem to want others around them to have the same. Walker, as the town's bar owner, is always offering advice while serving drinks, but I don't need a therapist right now.
The sound of a car door closing draws my attention back out front.
"I'll talk to you later, Chase. I think my delivery just arrived."
"Chat soon," he says before ending the call.
Thinking my day is looking up with the arrival of my materials, I head out the front door, only there isn't a flatbed truck with lumber on it out by my truck. There's a gorgeous blonde in a sweater that accentuates every single delicious curve of her body.
My heart races as I walk out onto my front porch, knowing as she opens the back driver's side door that she could easily pull out a trash bag with my belongings from her house.
Instead of my things, she straightens from the back of the car with a casserole dish in her hands.
My heart races, both because she doesn't seem keen on kicking me to the curb right now and because I know the woman has the most incredible ability when it comes to food. I've never been happier to see a covered glass dish in my entire life.
"Need help with anything?" Ronnie asks as he approaches her with a wide grin.
"Can you grab that bag, please?" she says, angling her head toward her car.
Ronnie dips his head in agreement, his smile wide as he reaches into the vehicle.
I'd commend him for helping her, but it's the look in his eyes when he straightens back up and watches her walk in my direction with the same tilt to his head that I always have when I watch her walk away.
"Do you want to die on a Monday?" I growl at the man.
"It's just breakfast," Riley says as she pauses at the bottom of the porch stairs. "I didn't think—"
"Not you, baby. Ronnie, don't you have work to do?"
The man snaps his eyes from her ass to look at me, his cheeks pinking at being caught.
I get the appeal, believe me, I do, but this man is a walking hard-on. I think he'd bed anything that walks.
"Sure, boss," he says, placing the bag near her feet on the steps. "Apologies, ma'am."
"Apologies for what? No, don't go. I have breakfast for everyone."
"All of us?" Ronnie asks, his voice how I would expect a child to sound on Christmas morning when looking at the tree surrounded by gifts they didn't expect.
"Go round 'em up," Riley says. "I can serve at the picnic tables."
Ronnie bounces off, and I swear the guy is fucking skipping to let the rest of the crew know they have breakfast waiting for them.
"I guess I should've asked," Riley says when she looks back in my direction.
"It's fine," I say, wishing my crew was already gone so I could be alone with her. "Let me help you."
I descend the stairs and grab the handles of the bag Ronnie brought up before turning toward the picnic tables.
The two tables under the copse of trees to the left of the front porch are mostly used when we're working out of the shop, which often happens because we custom build a lot of the things we put in people's homes like cabinets, built-in features, and furniture.
Riley places the food on the table before reaching for the bag in my hands, and I swear I feel an electrical pulse arc from her fingertips to my hand when we brush slightly. I'm losing my mind over this woman, and she seems quite content to just glance up at me and smile as she pulls plates, napkins, and plastic cutlery from the bag.
I open my mouth to ask her if we could talk, but the guys from my crew practically swarm us, lining up behind me like they haven’t eaten in a month.
I must sigh my frustration out loud because her eyes lift from the stack of paper plates in her hands to my face. She gives me a gentle smile, and it somehow calms me a little, telling me I'll get my chance.
She doesn't seem annoyed or nervous, as I would assume she would if she were here to tell me to get my shit out of her house. I know the possibility of her asking me to leave has nothing to do with me being displaced. Although I won't have a functioning kitchen, my house is perfectly fine now to move back into, but the idea of more distance between us makes me want to scream and kick like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum.
"I can do that," Ethan offers when Riley pulls out a spatula to start serving. The man looks up at me before continuing, "If you two want to talk or something."