Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135442 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
But after she said those two words, after watching her lay out her dream for him, he pulled her into his arms and made out with Ryn in her dump that smelled of cat piss.
When he broke it off, she was plastered to him and neither of them let go.
“Do you think I’m crazy?” she asked.
“No dream is crazy, Ryn. I worry you don’t know what you’re doing, but I reckon before you do it, you’ll figure it out or find someone who can help.”
She nodded.
“And I’m someone who can help.”
He felt her body ease deeper into his, and she smiled.
Good Christ, he wanted to fuck her all the time.
“I’m gonna get back on with demo tomorrow,” she declared.
“I gotta work tomorrow, baby. Take it easy. But the weekend, I’m here. And if I can arrange some time off, I’m here. You cool with that?”
“I didn’t bring you here to ask you—”
“I’m a member of the Extreme Alphas Club, woman. You think I don’t get off on the idea of demoing shit and trimming hedges and grouting tile?”
She started laughing.
“Now as awesome as this is,” he went on, “I really need you to walk me through it showing me what you’re thinking, and do that fast, so we can get outta here before I puke because of the stench.”
“The carpet goes first,” she replied.
“Word,” he agreed.
She started laughing again.
She stopped to tip her head to the side and ask, “Okay, Boone, sheikh’s son?”
He touched his lips to hers, said, “Later,” against them then broke from her, took her hand, and ordered, “Show me where you want the French door.”
She shot him a big smile with bright, shining blue eyes.
And then she showed him where she wanted the French door.
Chapter Nine
Deal
Ryn
My phone ringing woke me.
Strike that.
Hearing Boone mutter a sleepy-gravelly, “Shit,” I knew my phone ringing woke both of us.
I shifted out of the curve of his body when he shifted in order to grab my phone.
By the time I’d turned, got up on an elbow, got a load of tousle-haired Boone in the morning, and dealt with my reaction to that, he’d grabbed my cell and was looking at the screen.
But seeing him there, in my bed, just woken up, and after we’d had a great day yesterday (notwithstanding it starting with a visit from two possibly dirty cops and getting the knowledge a friend of mine had been murdered), I realized I was an anything goes person.
I could be a morning person.
Or I could be a bear in the morning (specifically when someone woke me up early with a phone call after I’d been dancing the night before).
I worked at night, and a lot of the time I was on fire, but that didn’t mean I was a nighttime person. I had to fake it at work some nights when I wasn’t feeling it.
I was getting the sense, however, that if life took me to a place where I woke up next to Boone on a regular basis, I would for sure become a morning person.
I’d wake up every morning, bright as a daisy.
And I’d also be a nighttime person, if I got to fall asleep beside him every night.
This was my thought before he spoke, and I realized maybe I was not correct.
But not because of Boone.
As I was about to find out, it would be because of the usual suspects.
And I found this out when Boone declared, attention on my phone, “I’m not feeling you taking any shit first thing on a Monday morning.”
Before I could say anything—yes, with my cell still ringing in his hand—he carried on.
“In fact, after the last few days you’ve had, I’m not feeling you taking any shit all this week.”
I got my mouth open that time but wasn’t able to use it before he continued.
“Honest to fuck, pretty down with saying, if I have anything to do with it, you now live in a shit-free zone.”
A shit-free zone?
Okay, I was back to being in a good mood.
Because that was sweet, protective and funny.
And I liked all of it.
My phone stopped ringing.
I looked to it. “Who was that?”
“Your not-quite sister-in-law.”
That was a surprise.
And probably not a good one.
“Angelica?” I asked.
Boone didn’t answer because my phone started ringing again.
“Her,” he grunted after glancing at it. Then to me, he asked, “Do you want me to take it?”
For a second, I couldn’t think.
Because, outside my mother, who was often powerless to do what she’d always do if she could stand between me and the shit of life, no one had stood between me and any of the shit of life.
I wasn’t alone.
As I’d noted, I had Mom. Friends. When my brother wasn’t in a booze haze or he wasn’t pissed at me (for no good reason), I had Brian.
But for the most part, I was on my own.