Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
I shrug, feeling off balance. This conversation feels far more natural than I thought it would.
“I’m copying them to the computer at the moment.”
“I bet you realize all the places you messed up as you’re doing it, right? I do that with my essays.”
I smirk. “You hit the nail on the head there, Lucy.”
Quickly, I wipe the smirk off my face. Her expression has turned to ash.
She stands. “Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lucy
I shut the door, then lean against it, sucking in frantic breaths. This is so wrong. These feelings, swirling, imprisoning…
I shouldn’t want to kiss this man or crave for him to wrap those strong arms around me, hold me close, kiss the top of my head, and treat me like his girlfriend.
Fine, he’s hot and handsome. There’s no denying that. He’s over six feet with silver hair, his eyes a bright and intelligent blue. Looking through the window, I see his muscles straining in his T-shirt, a sports logo over his chest. His hair is cut short, prison-style. He has no tattoos. No scars. He’s got a chiseled jawline, and I keep thinking about tracing it with my finger before I kiss him. He’s like a classic Hollywood actor with his handsomeness.
But he killed my dad. I repeat it in my mind. It’s absurd that I need a reminder, but when he smirked at me just now, it felt like being on a date or what I imagine being on an actual date would feel like.
Last year, when the prison documentary aired, I watched it expecting to be filled with hatred all over again. Ever since I was a kid, I hated the man who took my father from me. Sure, Dad had his problems. He wasn’t always the best person, but in my childish naivety, I thought he’d get better. I thought the bad things would stop and the good moments would become the norm.
All the heartache I felt, I aimed at Jamie Williams, the man who murdered my father in the backroom of a bar, leaving the body such a sickening mess. Aunt Lila was a wreck when she came home after identifying him.
Then I watched the documentary, and something strange happened. This odd feeling overcame me as I watched Jamie staring at the interviewer as he explained his latest novel, a thriller set within the prison system.
I started imagining having similar conversations with him about books, literature, and story structure. I imagined him looking at me with that same steady, reassuring gaze.
Then the other fantasies started. I haven’t told anybody about them, not even my closest friend. I can’t tell anybody that my thoughts keep returning to him. My palms tingle when I fantasize about brushing my hands through his hair, grabbing his thick shoulder muscles, pushing my lips against his, tasting him, losing myself in the pleasure we could share.
Sometimes, I have dreams where he’s protecting me from muggers, wild animals, or natural disasters. I picture Jamie standing between me and anyone trying to hurt me.
This is the man who killed my dad. There I go, repeating it, as if that will make the point any more persuasive. I shouldn’t need to be persuaded that I hate this man, yet here I am.
Okay, no more nonsense. No more freaking out if he aims a charming smirk my way. This meeting was a mistake. Did I arrange it at home because I wanted some steaminess to happen? For my fantasies to come true? I shouldn’t think like that.
Pandora’s box, it’s time to close. It’s time I behaved like the mature person I want to be.
When I return outside, I offer what I hope is a civilized, distant smile. It’s the only way I will get through this—distance myself from all the hunger, the heat, the misplaced desire.
“Would you like more soda?” I ask when he finishes his glass.
He tilts his head, his bright eyes glinting with confusion… and something else. It’s like he’s intensely curious about me, as though he wants to get to know me as intimately and deeply as I want to know him. Or maybe that’s me playing more mind games on myself.
“What?” I say, unable to sit here and take that expression, that heat.
“It’s just…” He sighs, his finger moving around the rim of the glass, and I have to tell myself I’m not jealous of that glass. “This isn’t what I expected. I thought you’d shout at me, hate me, and rightfully so.”
“Who said I don’t hate you?”
I intend for it to come out harsh and cutting. I intend to sound exactly what I should be: a wronged and righteous daughter trying to show her father’s killer a shred of civility. Honestly, it comes out flirty. I didn’t even know I could sound flirtatious until just now. With Jamie. My man. Stop.