Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“Why are you still following me?” And he has, all the way to the shuttle stop. Nowhere near his Jeep. “Your car is that way,” I helpfully point out.
“You lost your job because of me.”
His voice sounds dull, lacking its usual snappy charm. There’s something wrong about it. Like a lion with no mane…or no roar. Whatever, it sounds wrong.
When I reach the shuttle stop, I glance up and find his gaze remote, as if he’s not seeing me, and while he’s lost in thought, I take the opportunity to study his face. Something I haven’t done yet because frankly it’s like staring into the sun, way too intense and only to be attempted in small doses.
Closely shaven, the sharp line of his jaw is stiff. His angled brows pulled low over traffic light green eyes. There’s a small scattering of barely noticeable freckles along his sculpted cheekbone. I wonder if he wears SPF 50. He’s so tan I doubt it. He should though. He definitely should. Melanoma kills.
His hands come to rest on his hips and his sensual mouth purses like he’s mulling over a serious dilemma. Except the dilemma isn’t his to solve. He doesn’t have a high GPA to maintain to hold on to his scholarship. He doesn’t have a car that’s more valuable as scrap metal. He doesn’t have to work to pay his living expenses. Mr. Big Deal doesn’t have a worry in the world.
My emotions are presently everywhere on the scale: annoyed, crushed, overwhelmed, scared…so scared I don’t dare answer. I’m liable to say something I’ll regret in my present state, and it would be really unfair of me to unload on him during this freak-out.
“You did, didn’t you?” He gestures toward the Slow Drip with a tilt of his perfectly shaped chin.
Did I mention that the dimple in his chin is cute? Yeah, well, it is darnit. Which annoys me. Chins like his should only be dispensed to movie stars and billboard models. They’re too dangerous for ordinary civilians to possess.
“Because of me,” he continues, nodding to himself. His gaze latches on to mine and gets squinty. “Do I have something on my chin?” He brushes it with the back of his hand.
“No,” I huff. Because nothing screams I’m innocent of whatever you assume I’m up to like acting bitchy. “And yes. I lost my job. I have a sprained ankle. How am I supposed to work behind the bar with three other people on these?” I stomp the crutches for a fleeting moment of juvenile satisfaction.
He frowns, his flawless face crowded with guilt.
“Anyway…” My voice peters out, my shoulders fall. I’m suddenly exhausted. I’ll have to sell one of my cameras. The mere thought of it makes tears prick my eyes and stuffs up my nose. “It’s my problem. Not yours. And––” I glance away. “I guess food isn’t absolutely necessary.” A burst of dry laughter comes out. It’s strained, humorless. Awkward. “I’ll be fine.”
He exhales harshly. “Jesus.” It’s safe to say my joke bombed. His hands rake back and forth through his sun-painted hair.
“I’ll sell a camera,” I barely get out, wracking my brain for a happy thought to stave off the tears welling in the corners of my eyes.
Babygoatsbabygoatsbabygoats
My cameras are the only things of value I possess in this world. It took me seven years of working the worst jobs on the planet to pay them off.
Cleaning cages at the animal shelter? Been there. The cleaning was easy compared to seeing all those distraught furry faces behind bars. Many a night I drove home in tears.
Working at the car wash in the middle of a northeast winter? Done that. Don’t try it. Not unless you’re keen on frostbitten nipples. The sexual harassment wasn’t a whole lot of fun, either. Which served as a springboard for the next horrible odd job.
Transporting vats of used grease from fast food joints and diners to recycling. Yep. Unfortunately, I’ve done that too. My least favorite. I still won’t touch fried food with a ten-foot pole. My gag reflex trips automatically if I even catch a whiff of used oil.
And yet I would go back and do it all over again for my cameras because they are life. The tools of my trade. The instruments of my passion.
“Your camera?”
“Never mind.”
“Let me drive you back to campus,” he implores softly.
Even though it’s well in the eighties, I’m chilled to the bone. That’s easy enough to explain. I’m tired and stressed. That’s all. What I can’t explain is how his low voice warms me from the inside out. A ray of sunlight bathes my eyes. The sun is starting to burn through the marine haze. I nod because anything is better than standing here for another minute.
Chapter 8
Reagan
“Email me your schedule.”
“You’re like a dog with a bone,” she murmurs impassively.