Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
I, on the other hand, spent eight hours tossing and turning and fighting the urge to jump out of bed and jump Ben Barrett’s bones.
God, I acted like a spoiled brat last night.
Try bitch.
Fine, I’ll call a spade a spade.
When I brought Ben back to the apartment, I truly had every intention of having some fun with him. But then we walked inside, and the first thing I saw was the pile of textbooks on the computer desk. The stack of bills on the hall table. The jam-packed schedule tacked on the fridge.
Then I looked over and there was Ben. A gorgeous, confident man who made it clear he wanted to tear off my clothes with his teeth. A man who kissed like a champion and made me feel dizzy with desire.
That’s when the confusion kicked in. Somehow this cocky movie star managed to make important tasks like studying and paying bills seem secondary. And then, to make matters worse, when I let down my guard and admitted I don’t usually make time for sex, Ben had backed off. Just when I’d been ready to stop acting like an uptight party-pooper—fine, bitch—he’d promptly taken sex off the table and gone to bed. Alone.
I guess I deserve that.
Yawning, I glance at the clock on my bedside table. Ten thirty. I can’t remember the last time I got up later than eight, and the realization that I’ve wasted half my morning stewing over Ben’s rejection and my own stupidity isn’t one I like waking up with.
The faint sound of music finally draws me out of my warm covers. I wrinkle my forehead as I search for my slippers, the fuzzy, pink cat ones the kids at the center collectively bought me last year for my birthday. I find them in front of the closet, slip my bare feet into them, and leave the bedroom.
In the narrow hall, the music grows louder. Sounds like…the Beach Boys? Yep, it’s the Beach Boys, I realize as the soft strains of “I Get Around” become clear. Then I make out a male voice humming along and roll my eyes. Hard. Of course Ben is listening to this. It’s probably his life’s theme song.
I find him in the kitchen, frying eggs over the stove and singing along with the song playing on his cell phone, which he set up on the work island in the middle of the room.
I open my mouth to utter a crack about making himself at home, but the words die in my throat the second he turns around.
He’s barefoot and bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that ride low on his lean hips. His dark hair sports a serious case of bedhead, and the stubble on his chin is thicker, giving him a masculine sexiness that causes heat to simmer in my belly.
My gaze drifts to his tattoos, the tribal designs and lines and lines of text that I can’t read from where I’m standing. My pulse quickens when I glance south again and note the absence of a second waistband. Is he not wearing any boxers?
Ugh. Why does this man have to be so damn…fuckable?
“Finished gawking?”
His rough voice causes my head to snap up. Ben’s grinning at me, looking totally pleased by the fact that I’ve been checking him out.
“I wasn’t gawking,” I lie, breezing toward the fridge to get some orange juice. “I was just—”
“Shhh.” He holds up his hand to silence me, cocks his head toward the phone, and starts singing the first few lines of “Barbara Ann.”
Open-mouthed, I just stare at him, waiting until he tires of the song and turns his attention back to the sunny-side eggs sizzling in the pan.
“I take it you’re a Beach Boys fan,” I say, sipping my juice. I set down the glass so I can run my fingers through my frizzy, slept-on hair.
It’s slightly unnerving having him here, cooking breakfast in nothing but a pair of jeans. Tony and I never do the breakfast thing, or the morning thing, or any thing that doesn’t involve hot sex followed by goodbye.
“The biggest,” he replies, shooting me a toe-curling grin before reaching over to turn off the stove.
Using a spatula, he drops one egg on a plate, followed by a piece of brown toast, and hands it to me. “Enjoy.”
When was the last time a man cooked for me?
Oh right. Never.
Oddly touched, I take the plate, and settle on the lone stool by the counter. The kitchen is too small to be considered “eat-in” on any real estate listing, and I’m about to suggest moving to the dining room when Ben picks up his own plate, leans against the counter, and starts eating standing up. Well. At least he isn’t one of those celebrities who expects to be served while he sits on a throne.