Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Oh, my fuckery! Bad enough that I’m out here in the communal area, stuffing my face when I said I didn’t want dessert, but I’m also dressed for bed. Kind of. I’m not wearing pajamas like a sane person would—no super slinky or cute nightwear for me. Nope, I’m wearing a T-shirt and huge granny panties. “Novelty knickers,” so Yara had called them when we’d met up for a coffee earlier in the week.
They’re her contribution to my homeless status, apparently. She knows about Mitchell holding my clothes hostage and I told her, thanks to Lori, I’m holed up in some cheap B&B, the London equivalent of a roach motel. I didn’t want to drag her into this because I didn’t want her thinking I’d lost my mind.
Anyway, she gifted me seven pairs of underpants—one for each day of the week—saying they were bigger than she’d anticipated (an internet buy), and she laughed when she added, if all else failed, they’d be good to camp in. Literally, because they’re almost big enough to use as a tent. They might be perfect for sleeping in. Not so much for being seen in by hot men you’ve slept with.
Hot men who’ve been out doing God knows what. Or God knows who?
Not that I’m letting that bother me. Nope. Just ask me. I’m fiiine! Nothing to see here but a girl trying to swallow down a mouthful of sugary goo while straining to work out what Oliver’s doing in the other room.
Please universe, direct that man away from here.
Lord, which panties did I pull out of the drawer? Was it a pair emblazoned with such witticisms as:
EVIE’S BIG GIRL PANTS
BOTTOM’S UP!
THESE ARE MY SMARTY PANTS
or was it worse?
“You should’ve ordered pudding.”
My heart skips a beat as Oliver appears in the doorway, his body backlit, his broad shoulders almost filling it.
Why does he have no shirt on?
And why do running shorts have to be so short?
At least I know what he’s been doing, rather than who.
And why would I order pudding?
I swallow thickly, the marshmallow goo having become glue in my mouth. “I’m not a fan,” I say, giving my head a tiny shake.
He frowns slightly, as though confused rather than unhappy.
“Pudding. The consistency doesn’t appeal to me. I know, it’s weird because I like all other sweet stuff. Cake and cookies and pastries.” My words fall faster as Oliver’s expression lightens. Was it the pair with the slogan on the front or across the booty? The pair that glows in the dark? “And obviously, I like candy,” I add, crinkling the marshmallow bag.
“Obviously.” His smile makes it seem as though he’s laughing at me.
“I thought you’d gone out. I heard the door close—not that I was checking or anything.”
“Why are you creeping about in the dark?” The shadow of his arm moves toward the wall, and my breathing suddenly sounds like an asthmatic at a strip joint.
“Don’t—”
Too late, the room floods with light.
“Ah. Now I see.”
“More than I anticipated,” I mutter, tugging at the hem of my T-shirt. I keep my gaze lowered before I realize it might not be the greatest plan, given he’s wearing running shorts barely bigger than my panties. “Stop staring, Oliver!”
“I’m Oliver again, am I?”
“I have other words,” I grumble, avoiding his gaze.
“I’m sure the last time I saw knickers that size, it was in the V & A Museum.”
“Rude.”
“But those were frilly.”
I look up to find him grinning as he glides his fingers over the hard, bare planes of his stomach. Everything inside me tightens, and don’t get me started on those thick thighs as he toes off his sneakers. As he bends to swipe them up, a valley cuts between his broad shoulders, slicing down to his waistband. A hook pulls at my belly from the inside as he straightens and twists, muscle and sinew flexing as he throws his sneakers into the room behind him. I don’t know which of us is more flushed, more glistening, as he turns back.
“You’re being greedy.”
His smoky tone brings me back to myself, heat rushing up my throat along with my apology. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have”—I realize he’s pointing at the bag—“eaten so many,” I add in a stroke of slow genius.
He crosses the small space, my skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. I swear I hate myself right now for taking sex off the table, because I remember how it felt when he lifted me onto it and . . .
And now I’m banishing it from my memory again.
“I’m not sure these are the best postworkout snack,” I say as he reaches into the bag.
“I don’t know. A little of what you fancy does you good.” He slides the marshmallow into his mouth, leaving me wondering how he can make something so silly sound so sexual.
“Do you always work out this late?”