Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
She rubbed her temples and released a frustrated breath. She was making an emotional decision, as Dr. Michaels liked to say, anchored in empathy and illogic. And Brent had always said she was too stupid to think for herself.
Her hands dropped to her sides. There had been a time in her life when she'd ignored Brent's commentary, when her self-image was as true and sturdy as her pageant pose. Perhaps too sturdy. The more she'd let his disgust roll off her shoulders, the crueler the words had become. For years, he'd tried to penetrate her pride, to elicit a reaction. One she'd refused to give. Until, eventually, he'd cut too deep.
Maybe she'd hardened herself so much she'd become an undesirable person, a detached wife he could no longer love. For that, she only had herself to blame.
You're excusing his behavior.
Dr. Michaels was right. Besides, she was anything but hardened now, and Brent wasn't around to savor it. She squeezed her over-popped fingers, and the silent bend of joints pushed her pulse to her throat.
“What's the offer, sweetheart?”
Interest wove through his timbre, and the endearment had no business shivering over her skin. Nothing was more comforting, or more narcissistic, than feeling desired.
She leaned toward the door and placed her palm on the cool surface. Even if he did desire her, it had no weight in her decision. His intention did, and she didn't know what that was. She didn't know him.
But she hadn't known any of her previous lovers. Hell, her I'd like to make you an offer was the first thing she'd uttered to Zach through the door.
Zach. The recent change in their interactions was the beginning of the end. Perhaps, she'd made such a fool of herself he didn't plan to come back at all. Sometimes, they didn't.
Lack of options was all she had left. “What's your name?”
His pause was brief but unnerving. “Van.”
“Van.” Her voice rasped past a sandpaper throat. “I'll invite you in for four hours while I dye a project and wait for it to dry. In exchange, you will take my finished packages to the mailbox.” She held her breath.
“Does the dyeing and drying involve my skin?”
Her lips twitched, and it felt...safe. “If you misbehave.”
“Are you going to give me herpes?”
She laughed at his teasing tone and covered her mouth, startled by the sound. She lowered her hands, but the smile persisted. “If you ask nicely.” Her face inflamed. Jesus, she was flirting. Oh, fuckever. Wasn't that what she was offering? The same thing she'd offered the last six delivery guys? Sex in exchange for her deliveries?
But Van's name wasn't stitched on his shirt. He wasn't on his lunch break, for twenty minutes on Tuesday or Friday. He'd opened her mail, for Godssake. He asked questions. He pursued her.
“It's a deal.” His voice was firm, final.
Ohshitohshitohshit. It was one thing to flirt and joke through the safety of the door, but letting him inside after she’d run off her mouth and made an ass of herself? What was she thinking?
Her pulse jumped from zero to a hundred and forty, her legs weakened, and the chest pain barreled in. No, please, not an attack. Not going to happen.
She breathed deeply, flexing and holding her abs on each inhale, four times. She would slap on a fresh face and pull herself together, dammit. The four clocks lined on the far wall read 12:40 AM. “I need twenty-four minutes.”
Without waiting for a response, she ran to the bedroom and continued her belly breathing while she changed from her sweat-soaked suit to a clean black minidress. That done, she finger-combed the carpet lines and freshened her makeup in the bathroom.
Blond curls falling perfectly around her heaving chest, she stood by the front door and waited for six minutes.
At 1:04 AM, she spoke. “Still there, Van?”
“Even more impatient than I was twenty-four minutes ago.”
His voice matched his words, but she didn't let it stop her from unlocking the deadbolt four times. What if he tracked in dirt or poked around in her things? Would his personal questions continue? Should she maintain a far distance? What if her Aw, he has a lonely soul warped into Sweet God, he has a knife?
She opened the door, enough to leave a sliver without feeling the malevolent force of the open air. Then she sprinted down the hall, fighting for oxygen and towing a thousand-pound string of reservations behind her.
The deadbolt slid free, not once but four times in rapid succession. Huh. Was this some kind of neurotic indecisiveness? Or was the crazy woman taunting him? Amber was probably the kind of girl who would leave bite marks all over his dick.
Van grinned.
When the knob twisted and a soft glow illuminated the slivered opening, his pulse electrified. There it was, her free will dangling in the open door. He could take it, violently and recklessly, the moment he walked in. He flexed his fingers, anticipating fistfuls of her hair.