Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
“Forget it.” I didn’t even want this stupid party, but they insisted that since it’s my twenty-first, we had to go big. So, of course, I’m stuck doing most of the work. “I’ll go get the food from one end of town, the cake from the other, then double back for ice and try to make it back before dark. Wish me luck.”
Cooper lets out an exasperated groan. “I’ll call Heidi and ask her to come sooner. Okay? Happy?”
I kick over the folding table, because fuck it, and rush up the steps toward the sliding door, which is currently being blocked by Cooper. “Don’t bother. For my birthday, all I really want is one less minute of her snide comments and sneering looks. Is that too much to ask?”
“I’ve talked to her, okay? I can’t control how she acts. Just give it time. She’ll get over it.”
“You know, I’m not even mad at Heidi. If I’d been led on for an entire summer, I’d be pretty cranky too.”
“That’s not what happened,” he growls.
“It’s what she thinks, and that’s all that matters. Maybe that’s the talk you should be having.”
“Fuck, Mac. Could you get off my case for ten minutes?”
“Hey dumbass,” Evan yells from the yard. “She’s right.”
Cooper flips his brother off and follows me into the house as I hurry to grab my purse and find his keys. Not seeing them in the kitchen or living room, I make my way to his bedroom. He trails after me, looking as frazzled as I feel.
“You know what?” I turn to look at him. “I don’t think this is working anymore.”
Our bickering is draining. And annoying, because it’s usually about stupid stuff. We dig in and refuse to relent until we exhaust all our energy fighting and forget what started the argument in the first place.
“What the hell does that mean?” He snatches his keys from his dresser before I can reach for them.
I grit my teeth, then let out a harried breath. “Crashing here was supposed to be a temporary thing. And seeing as how we’re constantly at each other’s throats, I’ve clearly overstayed my welcome.”
Like a gust of wind knocks him sideways, Cooper deflates. He places the keys in my upturned hand. When he speaks, his voice is gentle.
“That’s not what I want. If you’re ready to get your own place, I understand. But don’t think you have to move out for me. I like having you here.”
“You sure?” I’ve noticed complaints about my invasion of his space have grown exponentially since I shacked up here. “I’d rather you tell me the truth. Not what you think I want to hear.”
“I swear.”
His gaze locks with mine. I search his face, and he searches mine, and something passes between us. It’s what always happens. When all our anger and frustration subsides, when the storm passes and I notice him again. The way his tattoos carve along the muscles of his arms. The broad plane of his chest. The way he always smells of shampoo and sawdust.
Cooper places his hands on my hips. Looking down at me with heavy-lidded eyes, he walks me backward and closes his bedroom door to press me against it.
“I like having you close,” he says roughly. “Going to bed with you. Waking up to you. Making love to you.”
His hands capture the hem of my dress and move upward, pulling the fabric up with him until I’m exposed from the waist down. My pulse thrums so fervently in my neck I can feel the frantic little thumps. I’ve been conditioned to him. He touches me and my body squirms in anticipation.
“I’m not cramping your style?” I tease. My palms splay against the door, fingers digging into the grooves.
His answer is a dismissive flicking of his eyes. He steps closer until only a sliver of air stands between us. Then, licking his lips, he says, “Tell me to kiss you.”
My brain doesn’t have a response for that, but everything clenches and my toes grab at the floor.
He presses his forehead to mine, gripping my ribs. “If we’re done fighting, tell me to kiss you.”
I hate fighting with him. But this. The making up. Well, it’s the undiluted syrup at the bottom of the chocolate milk. My favorite part.
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
His lips brush mine in a featherlight caress. Then he pulls back slightly. “This …” he mutters, his breath tickling my nose.
He doesn’t finish that sentence. But he doesn’t have to. I know exactly what he means. This.
Just … this.
As it turns out, I own at drinking games. In fact, the more I drink, the better I get. I’d never played flip cup before tonight, but after a couple rounds, I couldn’t lose. One challenger after another left slayed at my feet. After that, I destroyed three beer pong opponents, then managed to embarrass the hell out of some dude with neck tattoos at the dartboard. Apparently, once I’ve consumed a bottle of wine, I can’t not hit a bull’s eye.