Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“Are you sure we’re not heading to Arizona?” Chelsea whines from up ahead.
“Do you know your Nevadas from your Arizonas, babe?” Johno drawls.
“I think I know the geography of my own country,” she snipes right back.
“I’m not sure she does,” I whisper, only for Roman’s ears.
“Is she drunk? She’s wobbling like a newborn calf.”
“I think that’s her heels.” And I can sympathise.
“Anyway, it’s not like we’re late,” Jonno calls out in a retort. “It’s only ten thirty. Whose idea was it to head there so early?”
“It’s because Kennedy needs her beauty sleep.” Chelsea turns her head over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming a little maliciously. I know I’m not her favourite person, but what the hell?
“Doesn’t look like she needs it to me,” Roman calls back, pulling me closer to his side.
“Country girls.” She gives a tiny shrug. “Seems they get real cranky if they’re not in bed before midnight.” Chelsea gives a childish pout. “You worried you’ll turn into a pumpkin, Kenny?”
I open my mouth to retort—no one calls me Kenny—but one of Roman’s group beats me to it.
“I reckon Roman’s about to change his name to Peter.”
Smutty laughter breaks out.
“What’s so funny?” Chelsea complains.
Did I say she reminded me of champagne? Maybe I meant a glass of flat lemonade.
“Think about it, babe,” April says with a chuckle.
“I’m not that bad,” I find myself offering. “We just have that thing booked tomorrow morning.” I turn to Roman. “A tour of—”
“Jesus, little Miss Goody Two Shoes,” Chelsea retorts. “No one’s gonna surface before midday!”
“Ignore her, Kennedy.” April slides me an apologetic look. “She must be hangry.”
“I think you’ve confused hangry with bitch.” At Roman’s retort, Chelsea’s shoulders stiffen, but she doesn’t turn back.
“You don’t have to stand up for me,” I say, hip checking him a little. “She probably thinks she’s getting under my skin, but amateurs barely register when you’ve been insulted by professionals.”
The souls of my shoes scuff the sidewalk as we both come to an immediate halt.
“Who says shit to you?” His expression turns to granite as he plants both hands on my shoulders.
My mother, I don’t say, biting back the honest answer from the tip of my tongue. “I work in a bar in downtown Portland. It’s a good thing I’ve a hide like a rhinoceros.”
“So not true.” His thumbs trace the wings of my collarbones, his eyes the kind of blue a girl could happily drown in. “You have beautiful skin.”
“Thank you,” I whisper in return, earning a quirk of his mouth.
“Not that I want to wear it or anything. I guess I just don’t like the idea of you being bullied.”
“That would take my allowing it. And I don’t. Chelsea isn’t a bully. Goody two shoes is, like, a compliment.”
“They are pretty shoes” His head dips, his eyes on my spindly heels for a beat. “But they don’t exactly scream good.”
“What?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he says with a sly grin.
“I literally don’t.” I can’t help but chuckle. I might be a goody two shoes, but I’m not dumb. Just kind of desperate for his attention.
“You know why you’re wearing them.”
“Yeah, because they match my outfit.”
“You know it’s because they make your legs look amazing.” My insides go a little tingly, vibrating like a struck tuning fork. “As for the rest of you . . .” His words trail off.
Oh, he knows what he’s doing, making me desperate to hear. “Uh-huh?”
“Hot.” He shakes his head as though annoyed. “You’re the personification of provocative.”
“Me?” Do I sound as excited as I feel? As flattered?
“You’re the whole package. Legs, arse, those dimples showing low on your back—”
“Dimples?” I whip my hand to my back for a quick feel. Not for dimples, but because April promised me you couldn’t see my underwear. I mean, can you?
“Yes, dimples,” he repeats in a low tone, reaching for my groping hand. “You make me want to cover you with my jacket, throw you over my shoulder—that kind of shit.”
“All because of my shoes?” I’m surprised I can carry off a doubtful tone right now, given how giddy his reaction makes me.
“No, because I feel like I need to take care of you.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as we move back to Miss Goody Two Shoes again. Because sensible is such an aphrodisiac. Unless . . . “So what I’m hearing is, you don’t like feeling this way because women usually want to take care of you?” Despite my tone, I can see the temptation. See myself giving in to it.
“Projecting, hot stuff? Come on, you can do better than that.”
I bark out an incredulous laugh. “You’re serious?”
“Like you’re not used to all kinds of adoration.”
“Adorable is not a word I’d use to describe you.” A whole lot of others spring to mind. Tempting. Dangerous. Provocative. Hungry. Though that last one might relate to how he makes me feel. How can he accuse me of being hot when he himself is hotter than the devil’s pitchfork? But I’m grateful for April’s attention as she yells from up ahead.