Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“No. It’s kind of… brotherly with them. I mean, they will check out my tits if they’re out. They’re not dead. But it’s more fun and playful. Not sexy. Which is a big bummer for me. But this is super fun for you.”
It was… a lot of things.
But I wasn’t sure I would call any of them ‘fun’ exactly.
I was too busy choking on my insecurities and uncertainties to be having a bunch of fun.
“Oh, my God, Maeve,” Triss said, exhaling hard. “Have fun, okay? He’s hot. He’s interested. You’re hot. You’re interested. Enjoy it, okay? If for no other reason, then inspiration for your book,” she said, smirking, then turning and rushing back out to have her fun.
Not long after, Levee came in to steal the punch, leaving me feeling a bit like a party pooper, just standing in the kitchen like I was allergic to having a good time.
Luckily, the door opened again, and it was Donovan who walked in.
“You look like you’re melting with all that gauze on,” I said as he reached up to rub some of the sweat out of his hairline.
“I am,” he agreed, exhaling. “Hey, I got an idea. And you don’t have to feel obligated to say yes if you don’t want to, okay?”
“Ah… okay,” I said, nodding.
“You wanna go for a drive?” he asked.
“Don’t your ribs hurt too much for that?”
“Not on my bike, obviously,” he said. “Gotta get a new one of those. I mean in my car.”
“And by car do you mean one of those super fancy race-style cars that Eddie keeps talking to me about?”
“I do,” he agreed, smiling. “Much smoother ride than that SUV. And I know what roads to go on to avoid the potholes anyway.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Yeah?” he asked, looking surprised.
“So long as you promise not to race anyone at a red light like they do in movies.”
“I think I can hold myself back from doing that,” he agreed, reaching for a key on the wall where they kept them. “Do you need to grab anything? Your purse? A book or two?” he asked, eyes dancing a bit.
I did grab my bag, which had my phone in it, and I made sure to tell Triss that we were heading out, but then I was ready.
And by the time I made my way to the driveway, Donovan was standing beside his fancy racing car.
I mean, I knew nothing about cars. But it was a sleek, black, two-seater with dark tint. And after he held the door open for me, then closed me in, and got into his seat as well, the damn thing literally purred to life when he hit the button.
“So, out of curiosity,” I said, rubbing my hand over the side of my seat. “Can I get these seats in my car?” I asked. “They feel like they’re hugging me,” I added.
To that, he let out a little chuckle.
He seemed to take a minute to adjust to driving stick with only one good hand, but you’d never know he was struggling by how smooth and straight the ride was.
I was an anxious passenger.
I was always grabbing the handle and stomping my foot down on the invisible brake.
But I was nothing but comfortable with Donovan behind the wheel.
Maybe it was because this man used to race cars at extremely high speeds and still stay safe.
He was right, too.
He veered us off of main roads and onto side ones that were smooth and easy-going.
Between the purr of the car, and the solitude of the road in the middle of nowhere, it was practically meditative.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “You good?” he asked, making me turn my head to look at him, feeling a little dreamy.
“Yeah, why?”
“Just wasn’t sure how you felt about the speed,” he said. “It was an old habit.”
My gaze shot to the speedometer, and I had to slow-blink at the lit analog numbers there, because I didn’t believe them.
“No way,” I said, shaking my head. There was no way he was doing close to ninety and I didn’t realize.
My heart should have been in my throat, my stomach by my feet. I should have had my hair on end and a cold sweat dampening my shirt.
“I eased it up slowly, just to make sure you were comfortable,” he said, already letting his foot loosen up on the pedal, and the speed ticked down to eighty, then seventy.
“I don’t understand why I’m not freaking out,” I said, shaking my head.
“It’s a good car. Handles differently,” he reasoned. “And maybe you just trust me a little more than other drivers. And yourself, to an extent,” he suggested.
I wanted to object to that.
I mean, I barely knew the man.
But the thing was, he was right.
While I was a control freak about driving, I didn’t trust that I could maneuver myself out of a sticky situation. I didn’t think I had the reflexes for that sort of thing.