Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Calm down, girlie. He doesn’t like you. Just wants to make sure you don’t die on his property.
“Should I check you for a concussion?” He scowled. “You haven’t said anything in over a minute. I’m starting to get worried here.”
“The house is…modern.” I cleared my throat.
“And you don’t like modern?” He propped my right leg up, straightening and holding it by the back of my ankle. Pulling my legging up, he exposed a nasty-looking scrape. It looked worse than it felt, oozing blood and dirt. “Gonna sting a bit. Pinch me if it gets to be too much.” He slung one of my hands over his rock-hard shoulder.
Swoon.
“Modern is great.” I swung my gaze upward, toward the ceiling, refusing to be turned on by this innocent, tender moment.
“Liar. You think it has all the charm of a Walmart warehouse.”
“It’s not what I’d choose for myself,” I admitted.
He wiped my scraped shin with the antiseptic wipe, and I dug my fingernails into his shoulder with a wince. It burned worse than acetone on a paper cut. “Right. You’d go for something Victorian. Lots of arches, iron railings, churchlike steeply-pitched rooftop.”
That was freakishly accurate. “Are you able to read people’s minds? Like that Mel Gibson romcom? Is that, like, a medical condition?”
“Absolutely not.” He patted my shin clean of blood and dirt with the tenderness of a loving parent, and I dug my nails deeper into those jacked-up deltoids, this time not because it hurt but because I hadn’t touched a man in years and was extremely deprived. “I make it a point not to read anything. Reading might lead to opening my horizons. I like ’em narrow and flat.”
“You’re not as bad as people think you are,” I admitted begrudgingly. “More than anything, I think you’re misunderstood.”
“You sound like every woman who’s ever tried to fix me.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t try to do that. I don’t have superpowers.” I decided to change the subject. “So where do you live?”
“The Half Mile Inn, up on Main Street.” He dumped the used antiseptic wipes into a nearby trash can and ripped open a gauze wrapper with his teeth, pressing it against my wound.
“You live in an inn?” My eyes bulged out.
“Yup.” He draped a bandage around the gauze, securing it to my shin, still laser-focused on his task. “Have since I moved back here.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Don’t wanna get comfortable somewhere I don’t plan on staying. I purchased an apartment in Chelsea, though. I plan to stick around in London for at least eight years.”
My heart deflated like a balloon, floating aimlessly before crashing in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t tell if it was because it meant the next goodbye would be morbidly final, or because I was jealous he was in a position to buy a whole-ass apartment when I couldn’t even afford to rent a bike in New York. Either way, the pang of sadness unsettled me.
“That’s…awesome!” I hopped off the marbled counter, all bandaged and good as new. “Uhm, thanks for wrapping me up. And for the distraction.”
“You’re welcome.” He leaned against the opposite island, arms idly crossed across his chest, making his biceps bulge.
More staring. Zero words. I didn’t move, and neither did he. In fact, we were both frozen in place, waiting for something, anything, to happen. It was just that…it was the first time since he’d taken my virginity that we weren’t enemies, and I liked it. I missed it.
Too bad he has better things to do with his time than engage in a stare-off with you.
“I should leave,” I blurted out again at the same time he said, “Wanna see the rest of the house?”
“Yes!” I shrieked. I didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts.
He shook his head and chuckled, the international you’re-cute-but-ridiculous male gesture, and it felt like my face had been licked by a group of squishy puppies. “Start with the living rooms.” He cleared his throat, tilting his head sideways.
I followed his back, inwardly patting myself on the shoulder for my cunningness. Now I could ogle his butt and triceps to my heart’s content, make impressed sounds, and he’d think it was the house I was admiring.
Row weaved through the two living rooms, giant pantry, dining room, kitchen, two downstairs bathrooms, and the adjoined cabana that spilled onto the backyard portion of the pool. There was a lot of house. I sincerely hoped Tucker’s sense of direction was better than his grades in high school, otherwise the man was bound to get lost here frequently.
“Why’d you decide to take up running again?” Row asked when we were going up the stairs to the second floor (his butt was twelve out of ten, by the way).
“My dad bullied me into it. Made it his last wish. Can you believe it?” I grumbled. “Guilt-tripping me beyond the grave. That’s some next-level helicopter parent shit.”