Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“You remember in school how skinny he was. I swear he had a hollow leg. Never seemed to get full. Thankfully, I also had Mrs. Faulkner feeding him. Between the both of us, we kept those three fed.”
Emma lifted her head and met his gaze in the window. A ghost of a smile lifted her lips. “You did a great job.”
“I like to think so. Even if that leg is still hollow.”
The doorbell pealed and he gave her a look before going to open the door. Game on.
Three hours later he closed that same door behind them. Mr. Stevenson and his wife wanted the full experience. They were going to have another dinner, out this time, where they would do more talking, and tomorrow he had to meet Mr. Stevenson at the office to show him another copy of the proposal.
He’d had everything set up for the original time they were supposed to have arrived and it had just gotten shifted forward. He rubbed his forehead and took a moment.
His skin prickled and he glanced over his shoulder to find Emma, hands clasped loosely in front of her.
“Are you okay?” She blinked insanely long lashes as her soft question moved around him.
“If I say no?”
She shrugged. “I was going to hug you but I’m not sure if you want me to.”
His answer was to open his arms. Holding his breath until she walked into his embrace, he wrapped both arms around her and buried his nose in the top of her hair.
Part of him waited for the questions to come pouring out of her. Emma was naturally inquisitive. He’d learned that from watching her with his father. She’d peppered him with questions when it had been just the three of them until the Stevensons had arrived. However, with Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson in his home, she had been mostly silent, letting him lead and only speaking when a question was directly put toward her.
Except for the one time when Mrs. Stevenson had wondered why there was nothing of hers in the house.
“Not that our living situation is any of your business,” Emma had said, an edge to her tone. “But I have a young impressionable daughter and we are making sure that she is comfortable. I have nothing here and he has nothing at my house. It works for us. And I’m pretty sure you had no reason to be snooping in my fiancé’s bedroom.”
God, a protective-mama-bear-slash-jealous-fiancée was sexy as fuck. Yeah, he’d wanted to kiss her right then. No denying the pride in his father’s eyes when he’d given his own nod of approval. But after that, she’d retreated and only shown the Emma who was quiet and demure.
Linc held her tighter and loved that she didn’t move back or ask him to loosen his grip. A man could get used to this. Correction, he could get used to this. No reason for another man to touch her. At all. Beyond her, he watched as his father turned off the kitchen light and left the room.
“I know I’m not one of your boys, but I’m a pretty good listener.” She remained relaxed in his embrace.
“I’m glad you’re not, Freckles. Because if you were one of them, I would have to tell you that you’ve gotten much better smelling and that could be awkward.”
Her chuckle warmed him. Drawing back so he could see her face, he tugged her to the couch and sank on the large cushions, pulling her down next to him.
“I hate feeling like a puppet.” Linc’s admission shocked him but he didn’t retract the words.
Emma toed off her shoes and faced him as she crossed her legs. Her skirt was long enough that it covered everything, stopping above her ankles. A light frothy material that seemed to float around her, the sea-green hue made her eyes and freckles pop. What a pity—he wanted to see more of her. He wanted to inch up the material, exposing skin he knew would be softer than silk. His brain, always one of his weaker organs, started trying to figure out if she was bare, close cropped, and damn it, how she smelled and what she was going to taste like on his tongue. Because that was definitely going to happen—someday.
“Why do you want him as an investor?” She flattened her lips and shrugged. “I mean, I get the desire for investors, but why this one?”
“His pockets.” He rested his head against the back of the couch but reached out a hand to stream some of her brown hair through his fingers, unable to resist the pull. Not a simple brown, but variegated samples of shades. Pecan, maple, caramel, chocolate, cinnamon and more. “They’re deep.”
She scooted closer and he wanted to wrap her up in his arms, bury his face into her skin, and hold her until the new day began. The questions were there, he could sense them, and he waited for her to voice them.