Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
I scoop another spoonful of yogurt.
When she reaches for the tripod, it topples to the deck before she even touches it or her phone.
I stop the spoon midway to my mouth to peer out the window. It looks like the leg is loose on the tripod? Briar’s trying to put it back in position, setting it down gingerly again on the stool when the leg goes kersplat.
As she grabs it, her gaze catches me staring at her through the window. And I’m busted. Her brow knits, then her lips quirk up in an unasked question. Have you been watching me?
Can’t stay here like a helpless jackass now. Besides, it’s not like my secret’s written across my forehead—I jacked off hard to you last night.
No. Ferociously is more like it.
When I returned late last night, crashing in the tiny house alone with my lust and the soundtrack of Briar’s orgasm, I took matters into my own hand.
Twice.
She won’t be able to tell though. My poker face is stellar.
With my yogurt in hand, I head outside. Donut pops up, tilting her snout, then barking like she doesn’t know me. But when she charges over to me, she licks my leg in a hello instead.
“Hey, girl,” I say to the dog.
“I guess she likes you,” Briar says.
“Dogs do more than people.”
“I don’t know if I believe that.”
“Believe it,” I say.
“Well, I think it’s a good sign she likes you. She didn’t like Steven. That should have been a sign to me.”
“Steven’s a dick.” I should know. I looked him up last week. Even his bio screams asshole. He bragged about liking Macallan. Who the fuck does that? “Bet he’s a name-dropper. Bet he’s the type of guy who makes plans with his girlfriend but not the kind of plans you want. Bet he doesn’t take care of you when you’re sick since he’s afraid he’ll catch it. Bet he says he believes in you but doesn’t really know what you do for a living. Also I bet he grunts while doing arm curls at the gym.”
She blinks, her lips parted in surprise. “How did you know about the grunting?”
“Took a guess.”
“Impressive,” she says, shifting to sit on her knees. “But actually, I don’t know about that. I didn’t go to the gym with him.”
“Trust me—he’s the type of guy who grunts while doing arm curls.” Then I stage-whisper, “There’s no need to unless you’re lifting cars.” But enough about him. I nod toward her camera setup. “Is your tripod broken?”
“The leg is loose,” she says. “But I can fix it. If there’s a Phillips-head screwdriver here in the house or garage.”
“I can look for a toolbox for you,” I say, since I get the impression she’s not the kind of woman who wants a guy to mansplain how to fix it or to man-fix it.
“The leg is too wobbly though,” she says, after examining it. “I’m pretty sure the screw is stripped.” She sighs heavily and I set down the yogurt on the table and walk over to her. “Steven jammed it in a garbage bag when he so helpfully packed up my stuff.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. When I meet her gaze, I don’t think of the sounds she made last night. I think of how tough she is, how resilient, how determined. “You deserve so much better than that guy,” I say.
“I know,” she says with some resignation.
I give her a curious look since I figured she’d say you think so or he was a jerk. Glad she knows though. Still, I add, “A good boyfriend should show you he deserves you every goddamn day.”
“Ooh, intel for my column. I’ll write that down.”
“You do that. And don’t forget it,” I say, and before I’m tempted to sit with her and ask a million questions about who she is—a million tempting questions—I tip my chin toward the wounded tripod. “Want me to hold it for you while you shoot?”
“I can just grab a couple yoga blocks and stack it on that. I don’t want to bother you.” She says the last line like she feels guilty.
But why? Because she doesn’t want help from me? Or because I didn’t volunteer for her boyfriend project? It’s not that I didn’t want to. It’s that I wanted to too much.
“I’d like to help you with this,” I say, since it’s the least I can do.
She shoots me a doubtful look. It’s a little challenging—the look of someone who doesn’t suffer fools. “Are you sure? You seem…irritated.”
How do I seem irritated? But I don’t want to ask that question. Because I don’t want to get into why I had to take off late last night. Because I’m so fucking attracted to her, and every little thing I learn makes me like her more.
Like the fact that she wanted to cook with me. Like the fact that she’s so goddamn determined to make it on her own. Like the way she takes care of her little dog like the dog’s her bestie.