Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“I’m just looking for conversation.”
Her eyes softened with regret. “I’m sorry.”
Because she was the kind of woman who always kept her word. As much as her pushback frustrated One-Mile, he admired her conviction. “How about a little help, then? I moved here a few months back, and I don’t know much about this corner of the state. You’ve lived around here your whole life. Insider information would be helpful.”
“You didn’t ‘research’ me and follow me here so I could be your walking Yelp.”
He grinned. Brea might be sweet but that didn’t mean she wasn’t sharp.
“No. But I won’t ask you for anything more. And regardless of what Bryant might have said, I would never hurt you.”
Her full, rosy lips pursed. His cock jerked. The things he’d love to do to her mouth…
“What do you really want, Mr. Walker? Say it.”
Since she’d asked for the truth… “You. Naked. Under me. Crying out in pleasure.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath. “Why me? Why not the bartender you…connected with last weekend?”
Cutter would only tell her about that forgettable twenty minutes if he’d noticed, as One-Mile himself had, that Brea was attracted to him.
“Tell me you don’t feel the pull between us.”
Brea cut her gaze away and sank her teeth into that plush bottom lip.
“You do. I know you do.” He edged closer. “Look at me.”
She didn’t. “I really need to go. Please don’t follow me again. And don’t pursue me. This”—she gestured between them—“won’t work.”
“Why?”
“We’re different.”
“Opposites attract.”
She shook her head. “Too different.”
“Meaning?”
“Sex could never be casual for me.”
One-Mile believed that. “I suspect that, with you, sex would be anything but casual to me.”
Brea sucked in a shaky breath. “Stop.”
“What, trying to show you the options Cutter told you to ignore?”
Finally, she whipped an annoyed glare his way. “He doesn’t tell me what to think.”
“Good. You’re smart enough to make up your own mind.” He cocked his head. “Let me ask you a question.”
“I’ve said no in every polite way possible, and we’re done with this conversation, do you hear me?”
He did, but she wasn’t listening to him, either. “Are you afraid of losing your boyfriend? Or worried you’ll figure out he isn’t flipping your switch and I can?”
“I’m not dignifying that question with an answer. Goodbye, Mr. Walker.”
When she tried to walk around him, he planted himself in front of her again. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll let you go.”
She flashed him a surprisingly fierce expression. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“You don’t owe me anything. But you owe it to yourself to be honest.”
Then, because he couldn’t stay in her way without pissing her off, One-Mile stepped aside, leaving her a straight path to her car. He’d rather stay and talk, even with the stifling midday sun beating down and the beads of sweat rolling down his back. But he’d given Brea food for thought. Hopefully, she’d thoroughly chew on it until he found another opportunity to talk to her.
She flashed him a wary glance, then made a beeline for her compact. As soon as she reached the door and gave the handle a tug, her phone rang, its chime clanging like church bells. She ripped into her purse for the device as she settled into the passenger’s seat. “Hi, Daddy.”
Her father. The preacher. Her only parent. Besides Cutter Bryant, he might be a major stumbling block…
“What?” Brea breathed in shock. “Oh, my gosh. How long ago? Where are they taking him?”
One-Mile’s radar went off. Something was wrong.
“University. Yes, I-I know where that is. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Did the paramedics say anything else?”
Shit. Had someone called an ambulance for her father?
“Okay. Th-thank you for letting me know.” Brea turned and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears leaked from their corners. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
She ended the call, visibly shaking as she tried to shove her phone back in her purse and set it in the passenger’s seat. The thin strap snagged on the lace trim at her shoulder. When she nudged, the leather stubbornly resisted. Finally, she ignored the bag altogether and tried—twice—to insert her key in the ignition. But her fingers shook. Her keys jingled. She huffed in frustration.
One-Mile hated seeing her rattled.
He knelt in the open car door. “Hey. What’s going on? I can help.”
She looked a split second from bawling. “My d-dad collapsed at the church shortly after I left. Th-they think it’s his heart. I have to go.”
Third time was the charm because she finally managed to stick the key into the ignition, but her purse strap was still stuck. She grabbed at it with impatient fingers and yanked. The strap finally flopped off her shoulder but clung to the crook of her elbow. The bag itself fell to the passenger floorboard, dragging her forearm with it. The more she struggled, the more she looked ready to scream.