 by Lani Lynn Vale.jpg)
Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Why be moody when you can shake your booty?
-Text from Crimson to Hades
CRIMSON
I watched him from across the room.
I didn’t know who he was.
I didn’t know why he was there.
I didn’t know why I was there.
What I did know was that I wanted him.
I’d never wanted someone so much in my life.
I dropped my gaze, my chin now touching my chest, and wondered what it was about the man that drew me in so.
He was tall.
Way taller than anyone I’d ever been attracted to before.
Normally I went for the shorter guys.
Being four-foot-eleven and three-quarters—and yes, before you ask, that three-quarters is important—you tended not to lean toward the taller men because there was just no way in hell body parts fit together like they should.
He was sitting down, though, and the only reason I really knew that he was tall was due to the way he was sitting in the booth.
He had one large shoulder leaned against the back part of the table that was against the wall, while both of his legs were stretched out across the six-person booth. I could see the bottoms of his black combat boots.
Then there were those arms.
He was wearing a flannel. That flannel was rolled up to his elbows, revealing a couple of thick forearms that were prime real estate for some tattoos.
Tattoos that he didn’t have.
Which was weird, because the more I looked at him, the more I thought that he could for sure pull them off.
But the real winner of the day was the blue of his flannel bringing out the blue in his eyes.
Like, holy wow, blue. Blue the color of the damn well-maintained, rich-people swimming pools they were lucky enough to have.
So. Freakin’. Blue.
The only thing that was kind of weird about the man was the way he styled his hair.
I wasn’t sure what was going on with it, to be truthful.
It was a wild mess that definitely didn’t fit the overall ‘vibe.’
He looked dangerous.
But then he had this wild blond hair.
He could also go with a beard.
But he was very perfectly shaved.
As in, not a bristle in sight.
If I had to ‘fix’ him, I would give him a five o’clock shadow—if not a full beard—short, close-cropped hair—a military haircut maybe—and I’d find him a new shirt.
He looked great in the flannel, after all. But he looked uncomfortable in it. I’d literally watched him unroll then re-roll the sleeves at least ten times that night. As if it was too tight yet there was nothing he could do about it but fiddle with the sleeves for relief.
A simple t-shirt, threadbare and so faded looking like he’d worn it and washed it a million times.
Yeah. Red.
A red t-shirt paired with those jeans.
His jeans and boots were the only things on him that looked like they fit.
The boots were black and caked with what looked like grease. Like he’d dropped all kinds of car fluids on them and didn’t care enough to clean them off.
Then there were his jeans.
They were so faded and ripped that it was more than obvious that they were worn and worn well.
I couldn’t wait to see his ass in them when he stood up.
I was picturing a chain at his side attached to a wallet in his back pocket.
“I’m sorry, but if you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to have to have you escorted from this bar,” my mystery man grumbled to the woman that’d been hounding him by coming by his table every few seconds.
Oh. My. God.
He had an accent.
It wasn’t too prominent. In fact, had I not been studying—and listening—to him so closely, I might’ve completely missed the accent altogether. However, since I might’ve been paying more attention than I should have, I had noticed the way that he spoke.
It was obvious he was trying to appear incognito—the woman just wouldn’t leave him alone—but it wasn’t working. He was getting frustrated. And out came the accent for the first time that night.
I’d heard him order multiple beers for his friends and him. He’d also ordered an appetizer of fried pickles and then onion rings.
None of those times had I heard an accent.
“Are you staying or leaving?” the bartender asked. “Because you’re taking up prime real estate. People would love to sit here if you’re not going to drink anything.”
I looked down at my Coke that I’d just ordered.
“I literally have a drink right in front of me,” I pointed out snarkily.
God, sometimes dealing with people was exhausting.
Especially ones like the douchebag in front of me.
Not to mention, the bar wasn’t prime real estate. I had yet to see another person come up to this bar besides the waitress since I’d arrived ten minutes ago.
The bartender’s eyes narrowed, and I finally sighed and gathered my drink.
There went my freakin’ stalking.
I was able to see the man behind me using the mirror above the bar.