Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
"The manly shoveling thing?" I asked, pushing up to smile down at him, finding his lips quirked up, but his eyes thoughtful.
"That's a good look," he said oddly.
"Is my hair a mess?" I asked, wanting to reach up to flatten it, but I was using both my hands to hold my body up from his.
"Well, yeah," he told me with a smirk. "But I meant the smile. For a second there, you didn't seem so tense."
Tense.
I hated that word.
Mainly because I got called that word a lot.
Along with the phrases You need to loosen up and You need to find a work/life balance.
Like I was some robotic, boring, stick-up-my-butt person.
But, then again, who knows. Maybe that was how others saw me. You never really knew, did you? How you came off to others? If they saw you the way you saw yourself? Better? Worse? It wasn't something I generally had much time to devote to worrying about. But for some reason, it was on my mind now.
"And there it is," Gunner said, suddenly starting to fold up, making me have to press back onto my heels so he could slide out from under me.
"There what is?"
"That Miss Blythe-Meuller thing."
"I don't know what that is supposed to mean." But I did pick up on the tone that suggested it was an insult.
"Of course you don't," he agreed, standing, and moving off toward the bathroom. I was still tidying the couch, piling all the blankets and pillows onto the cot I had already made when he came back out. "Toilet should be fine for this morning," he said, making me straighten. "It's gonna stop working eventually. I'll drag a bucket in full of snow to melt. You can pour it in to flush it."
"That is... handy knowledge," I said carefully, realizing how screwed I would be in a situation like this. What would I have done if the toilet stopped working and I was alone? I guess I would have had to, well, start using the outdoors - as unpleasant as that sounded.
"Want to be really impressed, I can build a composting toilet from scratch." At what had to have been a curious look on my face, his lips curved up at one side. "One of our coworkers, Miller, she has this one rule. She has to have a working toilet. Sometimes, a real one isn't an option. We learned to get crafty."
"That's very interesting," I said, meaning it, as I moved to the kitchen to fetch the eggs, cheese, onions, and peppers out, intent on making him an omelet. He was right; if he was going to be doing something as labor-intensive as shoveling the giant drive, he needed real fuel.
"As for the bathing thing... we're gonna have to get used to whore's baths for a while."
"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, turning my head to look at him peeking out the back window, the blinding white of the sun on the snow hurting my eyes.
"Whore's bath," he said, looking over at me with a smirk. "Meaning soap and water and a washcloth. Clean the necessary places. Not overly ideal, but what we have to do."
That sounded about just as unpleasant as an outdoor bathroom situation. I liked a good shower every day. Sometimes, even two. One in the morning so I could look my best; one at night so I could unwind after work, wash the day away.
But, well, what was there to wash away here? All I would be doing was cooking and straightening up. I wouldn't break a sweat.
"Smells good," Gunner said, coming out of the bathroom again, this time in heavier layers than his usual jeans and tee, big, insulated boots on his feet. He looked a bit like a lumberjack. And while I already knew he had a tan Carhartt heavy-duty jacket, I couldn't help but picture him in a red, white, and black flannel jacket instead. "What?" he asked, making me realize I had been staring, and likely doing so somewhat goofily.
"I think all that outfit needs is a flannel jacket," I admitted.
"Having thoughts about me out there chopping wood, huh?" he asked, grabbing a piece of pepper and popping it into his mouth raw. "Getting you all hot and bothered?" he went on, lips twitching, green eyes dancing.
The crazy thing was, as he popped that idea into my head, the exact reaction he mentioned started in my body, making me flushed, my heart pound, my skin feel over-sensitive, and - as if all that wasn't enough - made my sex clench hard.
A whole body reaction.
To a simple idea of a simple action with a man who was most decidedly not my type.
What was going on with me?
"Not to backseat cook here," he said, literally from over my shoulder, looking down at the skillet as I added in the ingredients to the eggs, "but that doesn't seem like enough for two."