Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Her big eyes widen.
“Yes. It’s very much in her head.” The amount of conviction in Anneliese’s voice makes me think she’s trying to convince herself more than she’s trying to convince me. “Anyway, I don’t want to make things weird. I just . . . you asked me why I was quiet all day. I was just trying to keep my distance from you to prove a point to my mom.”
“To your mom?” I ask. “Or to yourself?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Lachlan.” She playfully swats my chest. “Ugh. I’m sorry. Was that flirting?”
“You’re all over the place tonight,” I say. “Pull yourself together, Blue Eyes. Haven’t seen you this rattled since the day I showed up on your doorstep.”
Her lips glide into a slow, pretty smile, and she exhales.
“You’re disarming,” Anneliese says. “I think that’s the problem. You make everyone you meet feel like they’ve known you their whole lives. My dad, for instance? He’s never like that. With anyone. And my mom adores you—despite wanting to ensure that you’re not trying to sweep me off my feet.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” I wink.
“There’s a familiarity about you that I can’t figure out. I used to think it was because of how much you looked like Donovan.” She bites her lower lip. “I don’t think that’s it, though.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?” She blinks.
“I think you’re exhausted, which is making you delirious. I think it’s been a long damn day. And I think this is way too heavy of a conversation to have at one o’clock in the morning.” I pat her pillow. “Get some shut-eye, roomie.”
She lies back, attempting to get comfortable, tugging on the covers and fidgeting. Finally, I slide my arm under her shoulders and pull her closer. Not because I’m trying to “sweep her off her feet” but because this is the only way either of us is going to get any rest tonight, and my alarm is set for 6:00 a.m.
“You never did tell me a bedtime story last night,” she says with a yawn.
“Anneliese,” I say with a soft groan.
“Just a quick one, until I fall asleep?”
“I’m sorry, are you a grown woman or a six-year-old little girl?”
“I just want my mind to shut off,” she says, her face half-pressed against me.
“I can put on some music.”
“I just really like your voice,” she says, yawning again.
Gathering a big breath, I relent. She’ll be out soon enough.
“Fine,” I say. “Fiction or nonfiction?”
“Surprise me.”
“All right,” I say, buying a little bit of time. “Once upon a time, there was a young man named—”
“Once upon a time? Is this a fairy tale?” She pops up.
“Not even close,” I say. “Can I continue?”
“Yes. Sorry.” She settles against me, her eyelids fluttering shut.
“Once upon a time,” I say again, with added emphasis, “there was a young woman . . . we’ll call her . . . Anneliese.”
“Hey . . .”
“Anneliese couldn’t sleep, so she begged her extremely exhausted roommate to tell her a story even though he wanted nothing more in the world than to get some sleep because Anneliese had worked him to the bone all day.”
“I’m guessing this is a nonfiction story.”
“Anyway,” I continue, “Anneliese was a bright young woman who lived in a ruined castle. She was hell bent on restoring it to its former glory, despite the fact that no one was ever going to live there long enough to enjoy it.”
“That remains to be seen,” she interjects, eyes still closed.
“Not only was this bright young woman stubborn, she was also funny. And generous. And a little sad sometimes.”
“So what you’re saying is Anneliese is sweet but psycho,” she says.
“I’m not saying that at all. Also, has anyone ever told you it’s incredibly rude to interrupt someone when they’re in the middle of telling a story?”
“Sorry.” She zips her fingers across her lips before resting her arm across my stomach.
I clear my throat three times, for dramatic effect. “Anyway. Anneliese worked in a bookstore, even though she hated books.”
“I never said I hated books,” she interrupts again before clapping her hand over her mouth and squinting up at me. “Sorry.”
Squirming and fighting a good laugh, she slides her leg against mine, brushing my inner thighs in the process. Not only that, but her breasts are all but popping out of her tank top. Never in my life have I spent days upon days with a beautiful woman, held her in my arms while we slept, and not made a move.
If she were anyone else, I’d have kissed her by now.
Hell, I’d have done more than kiss her . . .
My heart hammers in my chest. Knowing I can’t have her—that I shouldn’t have her—only makes me want her that much more.
My cock pulses, a warning sign, a threat that I’m about to reach the point of no return. I turn my thoughts to the least sexy ones I can find—British politics, rugby, craft beer, international layovers, and water polo.