Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“Always good to have options,” I agreed. “Why don’t you come and make yourself comfortable while I pack a few things?” I invited.
“Do you mind if I make coffee?” she asked, absentmindedly running her hands over the countertop in the island.
And she just looked so… right there.
I could see her there, making her coffee or tea, ordering in takeout since she didn’t seem like she cooked much, maybe occasionally glancing over at her laptop on the dining table, but not feeling quite so pulled to reach for it anymore.
“Help yourself. Might want to check the date on the creamer, though,” I said as I turned back. “I haven’t been here to keep an eye on it,” I added before making my way up the stairs to the second floor.
I packed like I would for both work and a world-tour affair with a wealthy woman.
So there were jeans and tees and henleys, but also slacks and a button-up, and I went ahead and even rolled up my suit, tossing a bottle of wrinkle release in the bag for good measure.
Which meant I had the normal shoes on my feet, a pair of loafers, and a set of dress shoes as well.
From there, I grabbed my smaller bag, tossing in a razor, shave gel, some cologne, body wash, and some hair product just in case, even though I kept it relatively short.
I didn’t need a toothbrush or paste since I’d stolen the ones in the guest bathroom drawer. She had an impressive stock of guest products considering she said she didn’t typically have guests over.
Preparedness seemed to be a hobby of hers. She needed everything to be just right in case anyone did need to stay over sometime. I’d bet she had it in her—or Cam’s—calendar to rotate that shit out every so often so nothing went past its expiration date.
I was reasonably sure there was toothpaste in my guest bathroom. Whether it was still any good or not was up for debate.
I heard her heels on the steps, prompting me to move out of the bathroom just as she was moving into the doorway of my room.
“I brought you a coffee,” she said, giving me a smile that, for her—a woman who typically portrayed herself as a bulletproof kind of confident—seemed almost shy.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said, moving forward toward her, watching as something flickered across her eyes as I spoke.
She liked the endearments. Whether she would admit that or not.
She liked me whether she was willing to admit that or not as well.
I probably shouldn’t have delighted in that as much as I did. But after hearing her make herself come in the bath while I was already standing there with my cock in my hand because I couldn’t stop thinking about her in said bath, yeah, you could say my interest had only gotten more and more intense.
I needed to get a grip.
It didn’t seem like this case was going to be as open and shut as a lot of ours were. And I couldn’t be fucking a client while I was still working for her.
It really shouldn’t have been so hard to resist the pull.
I’d had clients practically throw themselves at me on more than one occasion. It had always been a hard line that I never struggled not to cross that I couldn’t get involved with them until after the cases were closed.
As much as Sawyer and Tig, and damn near everyone else in my life, liked to dig at me about my women troubles, I did have some self-control. And I didn’t struggle with holding onto it when I needed to.
But with her standing there in my doorway, looking like she looked, smelling like she smelled, giving me the soft eyes?
It was taking every bit of control I had in me not to put the coffee on my dresser, grab her, and toss her on the bed, then cover her body with my own.
My cock was stiffening just thinking about the possibility.
“Where did you get this coffee?” she asked as I took the mug from her hands, careful to avoid her fingers because I swear to fuck, I was pretty sure just a brush would be my undoing right then.
“She’s Bean Around,” I told her as I took a sip.
“Yeah, it says that on the bag, but I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a local coffee shop. They have their own special blend. It’s what keeps people lining up halfway down the block on busy days. And why some of us pay a small fortune to buy the beans, so we can make it at home when we don’t feel like waiting on line. We can hit it up on our way out of town if you want.”
“Absolutely,” she said, no hesitation. “I think I need to buy about ten bags to keep at my place. How is packing?” she asked, moving into my room, going over toward my bags. “You are prepared for everything,” she declared after looking at my clothes, then zipping the bag herself and setting it on the floor so she could sit off the edge of the bed. “You know that thing I keep insisting about my shoes being fine?”