Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Sure.”
“Take a shower if you’d like. I’ll make a grocery list.” He pauses and pulls at the back of his neck. “Um…you cook?”
“Love to when I get the chance. You don’t?”
“I suck at it.”
Honestly, I can’t imagine this man being lousy at anything. He just seems so all-around capable. But his grousing makes me smile. “You won’t starve with me. And if you’re nice, I’ll even show you a thing or two.”
As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize they sound more suggestive than I intended. My cheeks heat up, so I look away.
Rand grabs my arm and turns me back to face him. “I’d like that. I could repay the favor by showing you a thing or two.”
My heart stops. “What kind of things?”
“Self-defense. Marksmanship.” He shrugs. “Whatever you want.”
Great sex?
At the thought, my cheeks turn even hotter. “I’d like that. Thanks. Um…I’m going to get clean now.”
“I’ll order groceries. Anything you’re allergic to? Anything you really hate?”
“Beets and pickles. I’ll eat about anything else.”
“You don’t have a special celebrity diet? You’re not a raw vegan? Or a fruitarian?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m a singer, not a model. Besides, I grew up in Texas, so I love a good barbequed side of cow. Do you actually know a fruitarian?”
“I dated one for about ten minutes.”
I hate the instant pinprick of jealousy. Of course Rand has had a love life. I’ve had one, too. But hearing about his bothers me more than it should. “Why did you break up?”
He gives me a wry grin. “Because she didn’t like barbequed cow.”
I tsk at him and wriggle free, then head to the back of the house. My search through the kids’ closet doesn’t net much. I grab a few stretchy things I hope will fit, then hustle back to the master bath, passing Rand along the way, who’s taking stock of the refrigerator.
Once I’m alone, I go through the motions: grab a towel, wriggle out of everything I’m wearing, rip off the false lashes, wait for the hot spray, lather, rinse, and repeat. But every time I close my eyes, I hear gunshots and screaming, I see people scattering—and I can’t escape the horror that someone was aiming for me.
When I was with Rand a few short minutes ago in the kitchen, I felt fine. Safe. We were even joking. Now that I’m alone, the terror of the day is catching up with me. I blow out a breath and try to calm myself, but there’s no denying the ball of anxiety tightening my belly.
Busying myself helps a little, so I scrub my body so clean I feel almost raw. Then I squeeze out a bit of honey-scented shampoo and suds up. I’m grateful I spied a halfway decent facial cleanser in the medicine cabinet, along with a basic conditioner in the shower caddy.
I’m still fighting tears during my final rinse, but I need to stop. I need to be strong. And I need to figure out who wants me dead. Crying solves none of that.
Finally, I climb out of the shower, wrap my hair in a towel, and reach for the clothes. They fit…but they’re like a second skin.
As soon as I’m dressed, I look in the mirror—and my eyes nearly bulge from my head. The white tank is two sizes too small. Its hem flirts with my navel and flashes a wide strip of my abdomen. Without a bra, the thin shirt is almost pointless. I might as well be naked because my nipples are completely visible.
Shit.
The shorts aren’t much better. They’re black and hip-hugging, but they’re so brief they settle into the groove at the top of my inner thigh and expose the bottom curve of my backside. Even standing in place, the tight spandex creeps between my cheeks and crawls up my vajayjay.
I can’t go out dressed like this…but I can’t go out naked, either.
And right now, those are my only two options.
Shaking out my wet hair from the towel wrapped around it, I finger-comb the pale mass as best I can, then quickly braid it. After a last look in the mirror, I toss the braid behind my shoulder and sigh.
Yes, I’ve had costumes almost as revealing as this, and Rand is just an audience of one. Despite our kiss, I don’t have any real indication that he’s interested. Yes, he was hard, but maybe he simply responded to the fact I’m a woman, rather than to me.
And the longer I stand here and dither in indecision, the sillier I feel.
I tug open the door and pad down the hall to the kitchen. It’s all I can do not to cross my arms over my breasts self-consciously. “Hey.”
Rand
Sophie’s light footsteps alert me that she’s out of the bathroom. I’ve already ensured the cottage and its perimeter are as safe as possible, then busied myself calling to order groceries from a local shop. Thankfully, Joe knows the owner since he lives down the street, so he’ll let me pay with cash. I’m grateful no one can trace my credit card. I need to keep it that way, in case whoever’s after Sophie knows I stand between her and him.