Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Nope. It’s a new day, and I’m focusing on the now.
The very real now where Chase is still asleep in what I would consider my bed. I don’t technically own it, but I have slept in it for the last week and a half, so if it fits, it sits and all that.
He had a rough night, but it’s been several hours since he had to sprint to the bathroom, and I’m certain he broke his fever at around one this morning.
How would I know that? Because I was checking his forehead every five minutes like a psychopath.
I give Chase a gentle shake, my body leaned over his and casting him in shadow as I try to let him know that I’m about to head out for my TV appearance here in San Antonio. I know he needs the rest, but I don’t want him to wake up and panic that I’m gone either.
Not that he would…but hell, I don’t know. I don’t even know what direction up is at this point, so I only have my own feelings to guide me. And if I were in his shoes and woke up to an empty motor home, I’d be calling the National Guard, the FBI, and at least seven local police agencies.
He doesn’t stir after my first two attempts, and his face looks so at rest, so peaceful, that I decide waking him isn’t worth it. He’s likely more rational than I am and won’t try to contact the president if he wakes up to a vacant motor home. And on the off chance that he’s not, I’ll write him a note.
But there’s an unhinged part of me that can’t stop staring at his thick, perfect black hair and fantasizing about running my fingers through it.
Don’t do it, Brooke. Don’t do it.
My fingers wiggle against the tingling urge, and I have to push myself back by a foot to get my head to clear.
Still, from this angle, the hair looks even better, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m launching forward and softly running just one solitary hand through his midnight locks.
“Ahhh,” I moan involuntarily, scaring myself when my special place sends a zing all the way up my spine and down again—just from running a hand in his hair.
“Lord forgive me,” I whisper, jumping away from the sleeping, sexy man I should not be touching, and spinning my body in a frantic circle. I even have to bite my lip to stop myself from screaming over my own temporary insanity.
Faster than I’ve probably ever moved in my life, I bolt out of the bedroom, grab my purse from the counter, and dash out the door and down the metal stairs.
Benji can barely keep up with me. Thankfully, I was smart enough to put his safety vest and leash on before I decided to get handsy with my patient in the bedroom and make myself freak the hell out.
And while I did ensure the door was latched with a quick hip check, I forgot to write a note. But that’s why God—or whoever—invented the iPhone, so I can text him instead.
The black town car is already there, and the driver standing at the door is wearing one of those fancy driver hats and a suit and everything.
Suddenly, it’s as if I’m in the movie Pretty Woman, and I’m the gussied-up prostitute.
I know my life probably seems fancy to some people, but on a day-to-day basis, it is the exact opposite. I am usually in stained pajamas and barely shower and do thankfully remember to brush my teeth, but contact with real people doing swanky things like driving me to a morning show to talk about my upcoming TV series is not the regular.
I am so out of place, it’s not even funny.
I don’t know how to behave, other than to be so painfully nice it’s concerning. Like, if my driver runs over a pedestrian on the way to this thing, I will assume all responsibility and turn myself in to the police for premeditated manslaughter, regardless of my innocence.
I do not know to handle myself as a mature adult, and I cannot fathom how anyone else knows either. Is there a secret school I don’t know about? Private lessons like I would do with a personal trainer for fitness?
I mean, I don’t do sessions with a personal trainer either—the most exercise I get is during a deadline crunch when I can barely see my hands as they furiously type—but I can at least visualize it in that context, you know?
“Good morning,” I say in greeting as the driver opens the door for me and steps to the side. I smile and he smiles back, and I mentally attach a gold star sticker to my Normal-Interactions-with-People chart for the day.
Once I’ve safely tucked my legs inside and Benji is settled beside me, the driver shuts the door, rounds the car, climbs into the driver’s seat, and fires up the engine.