Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Getting home doesn’t take nearly as long as normal considering it’s well past rush hour. I collect my workbag, my change of clothes bag, the bottle of wine I can’t wait to share with Archer tonight while we watch a couple episodes of Lawless Lives, and hustle to my front door the fastest that I can, hating the cold that’s nipping at my overly exposed thighs.
The instant I’ve closed the door behind me I’m greeted by Archer descending the stairs, large hands being wiped by a white towel, tattooed muscles glistening for the gawking.
What?! If he didn’t wanna be ogled, he should’ve put on a shirt! Oh…yeah…I hear how questionable that sounds. Do you think I had too much wine?
His grin grows too arrogant to deny that I’m doing anything else.
I allow myself another moment to indulge in all the places my anxious fingers are literally twitching to touch prior to pointing out the obvious. “You’re covered in paint.”
“Believe it or not there’s more on the walls than on me.”
“Good thing we bought you specific paint clothes, huh?”
He rolls his eyes over the reminder.
By we, I, of course, mean me. I bought them right after he forwarded me an article of ‘What to Expect When Renovating’. He wanted me to be aware of the noises I’d hear and possible damage and why he would be showering elsewhere for some unknown amount of days. I took it as a reason to buy him paint clothes and protective eye gear and earplugs. Ohhhh. That would be the miscommunication thing Dmitri was warning me about, huh?
The towel in his grip gets tossed casually over his shoulder. “I finally finished the bathroom.”
“All of it?”
He slowly nods. “Every single bit.”
I wiggle my bags off my shoulder but maintain my hold on the bottle. “That sounds like cause for celebration!” Holding it up, I dangle the object in a playful fashion. “What do you say, I pour us each a glass and then we can go up to marvel at your amazing handiwork together?”
“How do you know it’s amazing?”
“Because you’re amazing.”
Archer’s cheeks slightly redden on a bashful grin.
“Is that a yes, Mr. Fix It?”
“That’s a fuck yes, sweetheart.”
Excitedly, I start towards the kitchen area with him trailing behind me. “Have any problems today?”
“Just painting behind the toilet. That area’s such a bitch.”
Placing the bottle on the island is done at the same time I meet his stare again. “I’m sure it’s fine. No one ever looks there. And if they do look there, the bigger questions are why are they looking there, and do we really want them in our house?”
Archer lightly laughs while inching over to retrieve the glasses. Once they’re near the wine, he casually asks, “Is this why you’re home so late? Stopped at the liquor store?”
Guilt struggles not to gloss over my gaze. “Um…not exactly.”
“Not…exactly…” He slowly echoes the words on a cocked head motion. His eyes sweep my frame from head to toe prior to noting. “That’s not what you wore to work today.”
My mouth twitches to move, yet the most I manage to do is shake my head.
“You’d never wear something like this to work. The dress is too short. Way too fucking short. You’d flash an entire preschool class acting out The Crayon Box that Talked in it.”
He’s not wrong.
“And those boots are all wrong. Sexy…Very fucking sexy, but wrong. You don’t wear boots to work of any kind. Just flats. You like to slip them off under your desk or while you’re in the reading circle or playing and hide and hunt the book.”
Gahhhh, can we stop for a minute and appreciate how much he knows about me? I mean really knows? Chris couldn’t even remember the name of the academy I worked for.
Displeasure deepens in his expression at the same time he folds his arms protectively across his chest. “Where did you change?”
“Work.”
“Why did you change?”
“I um…,” a nervous bite is taken out of my bottom lip, “I had a date.”
There’s no missing the way his frame stiffens at the new information. “A date.”
“Really it was more like just a drink.”
“A drink.”
“One glass of wine, no food, and lots of talk about books!”
For some reason the mention of our conversation topic seems to spark more outrage than anything else. “Books.”
“It wasn’t like that!” I defensively squeak, although to be honest I don’t know what I’m arguing against since he hasn’t done anything other than repeat the words I’ve spoken. “See, Dmitri is a pediatric doctor-”
“Of course he fucking is.”
“-that works in the same hospital as my mother-”
“Because of course he fucking does.”
“And she’s been trying to get us together for weeks-”
“Weeks?” Missing the hurt in his croaked question is impossible. “You’ve been…You’ve been trying to go out with this guy for weeks?”
Shit! Wrong words! Wrong words!
“Archer, I-”
“No.” He interrupts, voice now devoid of any emotion. “It’s fine. You don’t owe me an explanation.”