Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
This was a perfect example.
I was a dummy.
I hadn’t even made it a week in this place, and I was already having problems.
Determination making my limbs stiffen with resolve, I threw the covers off of my body and made my way to the closet.
After selecting a pair of sweatpants, I grabbed the closest sweatshirt—which totally clashed with my bottoms—and made my way to the door. I slipped my feet into my tennis shoes left in front of the walk-in closet and grabbed my concealed carry weapon off my nightstand before making my way to the door and heading down the hallway.
My pants sagged, and I hastily tightened the string looping through the waistband.
Once it was as tight as it was going to get, I searched for my keys, locked up, and then headed in the direction of the sound.
Due to where my house was located, I decided to cut through the woods instead of walking around my property and down to the road. That particular way would take off quite a few minutes from my trek, and I wanted to get this over with tonight—not tomorrow morning.
Needless to say, I wasn’t in the best of shape.
Sitting on my ass all day drawing didn’t make for the most toned body.
Every once in a while, I’d pull out a couple of videos and do about a week’s worth of T-25 or Insanity. But then I’d get really, super sore, and forget why I wanted to be fit to begin with.
Then, I’d pick it back up a couple of months later and start the cycle all over again.
I was not overweight, per se, but I was on the verge of being embarrassed about my size.
On the verge, meaning, I wasn’t quite there yet.
In my mind, I was more like an Oompa Loompa than I was a person, but, since I was five-foot-three and wore a size eight, I was realistically more of a normal size than I visualized myself as being.
Vroooooom.
“You piece of shit,” came a deep, rough, male voice.
I bit my lip and looked at the barn that was coming into view.
Would he completely freak out if I walked up on him?
“Come on, you sweet little bitch. You can do it,” the raspy male voice said.
What the hell was wrong with his voice? It sounded like he was a pack-a-day smoker who had recently been punched in the throat.
“Ahhh, there you are. Fuck you.”
I found myself smiling at him and his power words.
Power words were those words that you just had to use when you were trying to make something happen, and you needed that extra oomph to make it work—that’s where power words came in.
My dad was exactly like that.
I couldn’t tell you how many times when I was a child that I’d walked into the shop and heard my dad or my uncles doing the exact same thing.
Although my dad had started curbing his mouth when I began repeating those words—at least he did when I was around. But when I snuck into the shop late at night while he was working, I’d hear him use those words.
“Fuck you, motherfucker,” came another snarl.
I was smiling when I finally made it around the side of the shop, but that smile left my face when I walked around the corner and saw him.
He was tall, around six-foot-four at least, if not taller. He was standing, his legs encased in dark washed jeans that were covered in stains. Jeans, I might add, that fit his ass as if they were made for him. A white t-shirt that was stained to hell and back and a red ball cap that looked like it had been taken off his head a hundred thousand times with dirty, grease-stained hands rounded out the image before me.
He was staring at the engine of an old Chevy, maybe from the fifties? His arms were braced against the side, and he was looking at the motor as if he was trying to figure out the meaning of life—or maybe how to get the damn thing running for longer than three seconds.
I didn’t know.
What I did know was that he was beautiful. Breathtaking.
Solid, thick, and muscular—he looked like he’d give good hugs. Especially with those long arms of his that were so thick and strong. The veins in his arms were plentiful and beautiful, too.
He had a name on his forearm in script that I could just barely make out—Francesca.
A daughter, maybe? He didn’t look the type to tattoo a wife’s name on his body.
Then, as if sensing me, he looked over and our eyes connected.
I felt the breath stall in my lungs.
Those eyes of his, God.
“Uhh,” I hesitated, unsure what I was going to say. “I’m your neighbor.”
He blinked, and despite having the break from his stare, I still felt like I couldn’t draw enough breath into my lungs.