Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 138965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
‘What are you doing?’ I call up to him.
He stops and looks down at me, letting go with one hand and pointing up to my bedroom window. ‘It’s open.’
I frown and follow his pointed hand. It is? How could I be so silly? ‘But I . . .’ I fade off and refocus on Ryan. ‘Just be careful.’
He smiles, and the vision is nothing short of gorgeous. His smiles are wicked, in the best possible way, his eyes sparkly each time. ‘You worried about me?’
I snort. ‘Not likely,’ I reply, taking hold of the pipe like I might be of some kind of assistance. ‘Because you were a spy in MI5, right?’
The sparkle in his eyes grows. ‘If you say so.’
He’s off again, moving far too nimbly and efficiently for a guy of his build, pulling himself up with his big arms with ease. And from here, I have the perfect view of his backside. And his thick thighs. And his . . . I shake myself out of my untimely ogling session. ‘I do say so,’ I whisper to myself.
He reaches across to the window. Oh, bloody hell. I wince, squinting, as he virtually flings himself across and catches the edge. My breath hitches in my throat. ‘Be careful!’ I yell as he dangles from the ledge.
He looks down at me. He’s still smiling, the lunatic. On a cheeky wink, he does some crazy acrobatic move, his legs coming up the bricks, his hand grasping the top of the window. He’s literally hanging off the side of my shop, has performed some serious gymnastic-type moves to get there, and the man hasn’t even broken out in a sweat. He’s a living breathing James Bond. I release the drainpipe I’m still clinging to and step back, watching as he throws his legs through the window, his body following smoothly behind. ‘I bet he landed on his feet, too,’ I say to myself just as his head pops out.
He’s grinning, and it’s wolfish, his head cocking to the side. ‘Your bedroom?’
I scowl at him. ‘Yesssss,’ I say on a drawn-out warning. ‘Don’t get any ideas.’
‘Like what? Rummaging through your knicker drawer?’ He waggles an eyebrow, and I laugh out loud. But mainly because if he’s hoping to find anything resembling sexy underwear, he will be sorely disappointed. Plain, simple, white cotton all the way for me. These days, anyway.
‘Come open the door,’ I order as sternly as I can through my laughter. He’s gone quickly, though the aftermath of his playfulness remains with me as I smile all the way to the doorstep and take a seat. What an enlightening morning it’s been.
Ryan. Even his name makes me smile. He’s so easy to be around, and I never expected to feel like that after . . .
I let my thoughts stop there.
‘Hey.’ He appears behind me, and I look up, unable to keep my smile at bay. I take his offered hand, and he helps me to my feet. ‘Do you have spare keys?’ he asks. ‘If not, I can arrange for a locksmith to come from Grange.’
‘I have spare keys,’ I assure him, unexpectedly liking the sound of him taking charge like that. I go to him and reach up, kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘See you later?’
‘You absolutely will.’ He returns my kiss, though it’s only chaste, probably because we both know what will happen if tongues are introduced. Then he leaves, and I wrap my arms around myself, as if to contain the warmth radiating through me. Wandering to the window, I lean on the frame and look out onto the street. This incredible feeling of lightness and serenity is lifting me higher than I thought possible.
I hate the tiny part of my brain for screaming at me that what goes up must come down.
I see Ryan break into a jog before I lose sight of him, and, reluctantly backing away, I go to check that all the windows are locked, trying to recall when I opened the one in my bedroom. I didn’t . . . did I?
Chapter 18
RYAN
By the time I’ve finished my run around the town and I’m back at my truck, I feel like I could do it all over again, ten times over. I’m light on my feet. Constantly smiling on the inside.
As I pull the driver’s door open, I peek across to Hannah’s shop. She’s sitting on a stool, a paintbrush wedged between her teeth as she stares at a blank canvas. The urge to go in there and give her the inspiration she’s looking for nearly gets the better of me. But . . .
Don’t crowd her too much. Give her space. Especially when she’s locked and loaded with paints. But what if she doesn’t want space? What if I make her day by going in there and smothering her?