Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 143382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 717(@200wpm)___ 574(@250wpm)___ 478(@300wpm)
I felt this settle, surprisingly easily, into the space around my heart, as he asked, “All good now?”
“Yeah,” I answered in an understatement.
He started up the movie and rested his head on some toss pillows he bunched there.
I rested my head on his biceps.
They weren’t fluffy.
But they felt nice.
Halfway through the movie, he shifted to his back, sliding me on top of him. His head was still on the pillows, and mine was on his chest, the rest of my body covering the length of him, and his hand at the small of my back. This was so much better.
Not only because he felt good and smelled good, but also because, when he laughed, which he did, a lot (the movie was funny, and I was glad he thought so), I heard it and felt it.
When the credits were rolling, I lifted my head and looked down at his profile since his head was turned on the pillows to see the TV.
It wasn’t as good as full face, but it was still gorgeous.
He turned to look at me.
Yeah. The profile was fantastic.
But this was better.
“Did you by chance make dessert?” I asked.
“No, but I scored a quart of Lotus cookie ice cream from Frost.”
I was a kickass bee-yotch. Not the kind of woman to let my eyes go happy round with excitement over yummy ice cream.
But I knew with the satisfied smile he had on his face, I’d let my eyes go happy round with excitement.
What was not exciting was, when he angled up, taking me with him, he was no longer my couch. Instead, I was on my feet, my hand held, being pulled to the kitchen.
Why did I ask about dessert?
Why?
He grabbed the gelato and put it in the microwave for twenty seconds to soften it (full approval) as I asked, “Bowls?”
“Cabinet above the dishwasher.”
I headed there, grabbed the bowls and came back.
I put the bowls down where he was standing with the gelato quart, and he’d managed to unearth an ice cream scoop during my long (and it was long) trek across his huge-ass kitchen.
He looked at the bowls.
He looked at me. “Those are pasta bowls.”
“Your point?”
He busted out laughing, dropping the scoop and taking hold of me.
I was plastered to his front, one of his arms around my waist, the other hand entwined in my hair. So, obviously, I had to wind my arms around his shoulders.
“It’s only a quart,” he murmured.
“File it away for future reference, big man, I’m a my-own-quart kind of woman.”
“You really want a kiss, don’t you?” he whispered, eyes aimed at my lips.
“Yes,” I whispered back, eyes aimed to his.
His head was descending.
I was rolling up on my toes.
And his doorbell chimed.
“Fucking shit,” he bit out. He kissed my nose again and said, “Hold that thought.”
He let me go and walked to the door.
There was a line of windows at the top, I couldn’t see outside from my angle, but I saw his entire body language change before he opened it.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“I could see you through the door,” a woman replied.
“Then why’d you ring the damned bell?” he asked. Before she answered, he said, “Strike that. I don’t give a shit. I’m not doing this, Savannah.”
Oh fuck.
“Who is she?” his ex-wife asked.
“Go,” Eric said as answer.
“You’re not answering my texts.”
“Take a hint.”
“I leave town tomorrow night, and we need to talk.”
“Did you hear me say I’m not doing this?”
Eric made a move to shut the door, and she snapped, “Don’t you shut that door on me, Eric!”
He shut the door on her.
She knocked on it.
Loudly.
He came back to me and started scooping ice cream.
I waited for another knock. There wasn’t one, but now I could see the top of a brunette’s head in the window because she got close. And not only that, her eyes were aimed at us in the kitchen.
Yikes.
“Uh…” I didn’t quite start.
“Don’t,” Eric grunted.
He finished doling out the entire quart, put a spoon in each bowl, handed one to me, took the other, and grabbed my hand.
He then walked me down to the very end of the longest hall I’d ever traversed, where there was a massive bedroom that had a seating area at the front, opened doors to a dreamy walk-in closet, and a double wide opening to an even dreamier bathroom with a soaking tub being the star of the show, this set in front of a glass block wall.
He didn’t take me to the bathroom or the handsome couch by the fireplace at the front of the massive room.
He took me to the king-size bed at the back wall, pulled me into it, uncovered a remote from a bedside table and flicked on another huge TV mounted to the side wall but swung out to face the bed.
He queued up The Nice Guys.