Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“Let’s order in.”
I open my mouth to tell him that’s a great idea, but then I remember I’m having to save every penny for the attorney. Kincaid mentioned Faith Robbins, and I can’t recall if she was one of the ones I called about pricing. I settled on the one I have now because they were the cheapest I could find in town. Now I’m suffering with the “you get what you pay for.” Maybe they haven’t called me back because I haven’t finished paying the full retainer yet.
“I’m not really that hungry,” I say. “I’ll make a sandwich, but I can call one in for you if you want.”
His silence forces me to face him.
He has a credit card in his hand, holding it in my direction. “Don’t tell me you don’t like pizza, and if you’re worried about your breath because you think you’ll want to kiss me later, just don’t order garlic bread sticks.”
I huff a laugh.
“I like anything on my pizza but onions,” he says.
“You don’t like onions?”
I walk over and take the card from him, making sure not to brush his fingers with mine, but he clasps my hand before I can pull it away.
“I don’t want onions today.” His eyes drop to my lips.
Jesus, is it hot in here?
“You should stop flirting with me. It’s not working.”
His smile is slow and, if I’m reading him right, devious.
“Not working or won’t work?” he asks, seeking clarification.
“Not working.” But it’s a lie. Sweat is dotting my back from his words. He’s making me want to be reckless, to take something for myself, to spend just a couple hours forgetting about my problems.
“Now do you want pizza?” he asks, a seductive tinge to the words, making me feel like we’re not really talking about the actual food.
“I haven’t had pizza in a very long time,” I test.
“That’s too bad. I can’t remember the last time I had pizza either.”
My eyes widen. “Did you just make a memory loss joke?”
His grin is wide. “Yeah, but don’t distract me. We were talking about pizza. I love eating pizza.”
“Is that so?” I take a step back, card in hand because it’s the exact opposite of what I want to do, the safe thing to do.
“I could eat pizza for hours.”
“You’d get full long before that.”
“I never get full eating pizza.”
The implication, if I’m not delusional, that he’d spend hours eating me, makes me want to squeeze my thighs together.
Hooking up with him would be a disaster. I have to wonder if I’m only considering it because I’m lonely. It’s been too long to count since I was last intimate with Travis, but the fact remains that he was the only man I’d ever been with. We made promises of firsts and lasts, but I was the only one who kept up that end of the bargain. I refuse to even think about the first pair of lace underwear I found in the glove box of his truck several years ago.
“This is a terrible idea,” I whisper, my eyes floating down to the finger he’s running over the seam on the armchair he’s sitting in.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
I swear I can feel his touch on my body. My heart rate jumps and sweat dots my upper lip. My mouth grows dry but I refuse to lick my lips, knowing he’ll see it as a flirtation.
“If you don’t want pizza, then I’ll eat whatever you want.”
I blink at him. Yeah there’s no mistaking the sexual undertones. How in the world did things just flip upside down the second we stepped foot into this house?
Is it the privacy?
The fact that it doesn’t exactly feel like work in the soft lighting like it did under harsh fluorescents?
“I need this job,” I remind him.
“What does that have to do with being hungry?” His head tilts a little, that fucking finger still tracing the edge of the furniture, in a way that honestly should not be seen as anything sexual but has the power to make me want to pant at the sight of it. “I won’t fire you just because we have pizza.”
“How much do we order? Because if I taste it, I’ll probably want leftovers tomorrow.”
“Yeah?” He grins, shifting a little in the chair. “I love leftover pizza. First thing in the morning, it just hits a little differently.”
“I have to work in the morning.”
“Surely you’d have time for pizza first.”
“I could set an alarm.”
“Pragmatic. I like it. How hungry are you?”
“Starving,” I answer without hesitation. “I think—”
My phone rings in my hand, and there’s too much up in the air in my life to send it to voicemail when I don’t recognize the number.
“I have to take this,” I say, darting for the front door.
Chapter 22
Bishop
I’ve had more issues than I can count, trying to align my reality with the dreams I’ve had.