Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22555 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 90(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Or rather, lack thereof.
Which is why it’s surprising on several levels to find a half-naked male in the guest house’s kitchen first thing in the morning. I myself am dressed in my usual sensible oversized plaid pajamas and fluffy socks. He, however, is wearing a pair of those thin, soft cotton sleep pants and nothing else. Not a damn thing. And let me tell you, those pants are sitting dangerously low on his hips. Though the real kicker is the dusting of dark hair leading down from his belly button to the bulge beneath his thin cotton of his sleep pants. I cannot look away. It’s impossible.
“Hi,” he says cheerfully.
Like I said, due to time restraints, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten laid. And this half-naked man is a lot to deal with this early in the day. It feels like it takes approximately an hour for my sleep-stunned gaze to travel upwards. From his crotch to his abs, then his pecs, thick muscular neck, and finally his handsome bemused face. All while he stands there with a cup of coffee in hand smirking at me. Oh, the shame.
“I’m Dean,” he says. “The record producer.”
“R-right,” I stutter. And try to punch through the cloudiness of my sleepy brain to make sense of his words.
“And I’m guessing you’re Jude the nanny?”
“Yes.” He knows my name, which means he might have a reason to be in my kitchen. But I’m having a hard time forming coherent thought, between my need for caffeine and the distraction of his cover model good looks.
He threads his fingers through his longish dark hair and asks, “Do you need coffee?”
“I really do.”
“Let me get out of your way then.” He wanders over to the dining table and takes a seat. “Sorry I arrived so late last night. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. You’re, um…no.” And it all starts to come back to me. Dave and Ev mentioned that a work friend was coming to town and asked if it was okay if he stayed here in the guest house with me. What they didn’t mention is that he’s one of the hottest men in existence.
“Good,” he says with another smile. As if I am the most amusing woman in the world.
Yay me.
His gaze takes me in from my messy blonde bedhead to my fluffy red socks. No doubt he is wishing he was as warm and comfortable as me instead of flaunting himself like a hussy. Or the thought might not even cross his mind, which would also be fine and dandy given how much I’m enjoying the view.
The guest house is similar in style to the main house. It’s beautiful and roomy and made of wood with a gray stone fireplace feature. Lots of tall glass windows to let in the light. And of course, the weak morning light loves him. Casting all of the ridges and planes of his body in seductive shadows.
But back to the details about the guest house.
There are two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, and a deck to sit out on in the summer. This is the first time I’ve shared the space since moving in upon its completion a couple of months ago. Not having a roommate was nice. Having the option of staring at this man, however, is…wow. My hormones are bestirred for what feels like the first time in forever. Which is a little embarrassing.
I fill the largest mug I can find with the perfect mixture of coffee and creamer.
Come to me, caffeine. Fill me with joy and turn on my brain. Pretty please.
Now that I’m partially awake, I can see small signs of cohabitation. Like the acoustic guitar sitting on the sofa. There’s something romantic and soulful about a man who is a musician. Not even spending time around Stage Dive’s manic drummer, Malcolm Ericson, has cured me entirely of those teenage dreams.
Dean is still sitting at the table with a faint smile on his face watching me when I turn around and start working on breakfast. Sheesh. This level of scrutiny when I’m still waking up is intense.
“You’re a morning person, aren’t you?” I ask, waiting for the toaster to pop.
He lifts one brazenly bare shoulder in a half shrug. The temerity of the man. “Probably more of a night person. It comes with the work. Musicians don’t usually tend to be early risers. But since all of the Stage Dive guys have families to get back to…”
I put the Pop-Tarts on two plates and take them over to the table. “Breakfast is served.”
“Thank you.” He has a disarmingly cute smile. “I appreciate that.”
And I say nothing. No way is he hot and nice. Those two qualities never exist in the same person. Impossible.
This is the problem with not having a social or sexual life. You lose your touch. Those muscles wither and die from disuse. You forget how to do it–how to talk to people. Most of my discussions with nine-month-old Jamesy involve making airplane or farm animal noises while coaxing him to eat his vegetables. Which leaves me standing there hesitating with a Pop-Tart in one hand and a coffee in the other and no social skills at all. Not a single clue what to say to start a normal adult conversation. I am hopelessly screwed when it comes to dealing with someone like him. Every time I look at him, my brain turns into a consistency similar to the baby’s food. Just mush. A normal person would take the opportunity to get to know this alarmingly attractive guy who I will be cohabitating with for the foreseeable future. But I can’t bring myself to do it. Shit.