Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Of course, he’s got the devil’s lips. Cruel, sensuous, and framed by a dark, close-cropped beard just beginning to pick up a few streaks of silver here and there.
His brows are decisive, dashed thick and dark under striking black hair swept neatly to one side, though one unruly lock arcs over his brow.
A flaw in his armor? Imperfectly perfect?
He’s killing me already.
And he does it again with his posture.
There’s something broody and furious about him.
The lines carved in his face tell me this is just his default look. It’s not whatever he’s glaring at on the laptop settled on the tray table in front of him that’s putting it there.
The stranger just flipping smolders.
There’s a visceral simmer radiating off him, taking up even more space than the man himself.
Hello, Mr. Bright Side.
Can you go from zero to daddy issues in thirty seconds flat?
Someone bumps into me from behind, and my headache drags me back to earth.
I wince—and not just because I’ve been gawking at a total stranger who isn’t acknowledging my existence while I’m next to him, blocking the aisle.
Right.
I need to sit down, take a deep breath, and swallow a couple of the Imitrex I barely managed to get through security. Dry, if I can’t flag down a flight attendant to ask for water in the middle of people getting seated.
Sighing, I adjust my carry-on and pin on a smile for Jet Daddy.
I always try to smile like I’m not in excruciating pain, but today I probably resemble a demented carnival doll with the way my left eye keeps twitching.
“Excuse me,” I say softly.
He doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t even look up.
It’s like I’m not even here.
Except the people behind me waiting to climb into their own seats make it crystal clear I didn’t just turn invisible. While someone at my back coughs and curses for me to hurry it up, I clear my throat and try again.
Louder this time.
“Excuse me.”
Nothing.
“Sir? Excuse me. I’m in the next seat. Can I squeeze in here?”
He doesn’t even lift an eyebrow, let alone look up.
What the hell?
Is he deaf? Is he ignoring me intentionally?
No one can possibly be this oblivious. His screen looks like nothing but Excel charts and spreadsheets, so it can’t be that fascinating.
“Sir?” I try again before I sigh and reach out to tap his shoulder. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but—eep.”
I never make contact with his shoulder.
His hand snaps up and locks around my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.
My first impression is that his hands are enormous.
More like paws with fingers, but his fingers are thin with large knuckles, giving them a sort of brutal elegance.
They wrap around my wrist so fully that his fingers overlap the heel of his palm. The pads of his fingers are callused, shredding the image of the pampered suit. The graze of his thumb against the pulse point under my wrist turns my breath into a stutter.
My second impression is that even though he cut me off before I could touch him, he’s holding my wrist so gently I can barely feel it.
No matter how quick and sharp that slashing movement was, he doesn’t want to hurt me.
Again, those glacial eyes slide toward me without his head ever lifting.
They watch me from under decisive brows with a cool, penetrating look that feels like being dunked in arctic waters.
I’m about as overstimulated as I can get between the noise and the headache and his touch and the way his indecipherable look cuts through me.
If I don’t sit down in the next thirty seconds, we’re going to have a much bigger problem than me blocking the aisle.
Thankfully, he seems to get the message.
He lets go of my wrist with a light push that sends me back a half step, clearing the aisle so he can lift the outer armrest and slide his legs out, making room for me to slip past. Barely.
Like I said, he’s not a small man.
My knees still brush his outer thigh as I edge past him with a flustered “Thank you.”
I try to tell myself my face only feels so hot because the migraine has all my wires crossed, especially when my blood pressure is likely plunging and I should feel cold.
But even with my distracting seatmate, it’s a relief to throw myself down in my seat.
I can’t be bothered to toss my bag in the overhead bin. Not when that would just piss off the horde behind me even more while I fumble to get my little carry-on packet of pills out.
Which I do now, hefting the bag into my lap and then digging inside.
Please. Please let me get this medicine down fast enough to stave off the worst of it.
I find the prescription bottle, fight with the childproof cap, then shake out a dose and gulp it down.
Closing my eyes, I go limp, hugging my bag close and idly listening to the caveman next to me moving back into position and the faint rainfall of his fingers on his keyboard.