Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
And his chameleon eyes are on my hands.
I look down and find that I’m moving my finger up and down the bumpy stems of the roses, grazing the thorns slightly. Not only that. My thumb is flicking the fragile petals, very slowly and carefully, lovingly even.
At his continued stare, my hands blush.
“Do your parents know you’re here?”
I focus back on him and catch the end of his eyes flicking up and coming back to me. Although I do witness the complete clench of his jaw. His almost bearded jaw.
He’s annoyed, I think.
“No,” I reply on a whisper that comes out strangled. “I mean, they won’t care.”
“They won’t care you’re talking to a strange man in the middle of the night.”
“You’re not a stranger. You’re my neighbor.”
He leans toward me, even though we’re still a few feet apart. And I swear to God, I feel the air around me grow hotter because he moved a micro-inch toward me.
“That’s how little girls like you end up getting kidnapped. Because they think talking to their neighbor when everyone else is sleeping is a great fucking idea.”
God, he’s so stern.
I mean, I knew that. But I didn’t know the effect it would have on me if he got stern with me, specifically.
All the wrong effects. The quickening of my breaths and the urge to smile.
Seriously, how am I not shy in front of him?
Not to mention, I didn’t know how it would feel when someone called me little.
I know I’m little.
I’m 5’2” on my best day and he’s at least 6’5” on all of his. I was right the first day I saw him. He is the tallest, broadest man, at least in Cherryville, Connecticut. He towers over everyone that I know and now that he called me little, I should be embarrassed by my size.
Shouldn’t I?
But again, I’m not. No embarrassment. No shyness.
All I can think about is how he can pick me up with one hand and how I can perch on his thigh like it was a log from a tree.
“Are you going to kidnap me?” I ask with amusement in my voice.
“No, I don’t want the hassle. I’m more of a serial killer type.”
Oh man, he’s funny.
“You can’t murder me, Mr. Edwards. You’ll end up in jail.”
He takes a few moments to answer. “Strangely, I don’t care about that right now.”
I look down at my red sneakers for a second, trying to control my smile. “I –"
“Leave.”
A muscle jumps on his cheek and everything slows down inside of me. I have to part my lips to drag in a breath because, well, I’m not afraid at all.
I’m not afraid of that lash of a sound that came out of him.
But I saw something. When I was looking down at my sneakers, I saw his shoes.
They aren’t his usual hiking boots – he’s had the same pair since he moved in. He isn’t wearing his usual jeans, either. Also, not his plaid shirt.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.
He’s in fancy clothes.
Being single, every once in a while, Mr. Edwards puts on fancy clothes – dress shirt, neatly pressed pants and dress shoes – and goes out on a date.
I knew he was going to go out tonight; Brian told me. But I didn’t know that he was going to go out out.
He hasn’t been on very many dates but he does go out sometimes. And every time he does, I picture him with a sophisticated, pink-champagne drinking, lobster-eating woman and it feels like someone’s sticking me with needles or peeling off my skin or making me eat strawberries when I don’t want to.
My nod is jerky, as all my smiles and euphoria go out of me. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
I take a couple of steps toward my house. But my feet prove to be drunk and uncooperative, making me flounder.
Even before my world tips, I know I’m going to fall.
Miraculously though, I don’t.
Instead, I’m plastered against something solid and heated. Something expansive and breathing.
I’m plastered against Mr. Edwards.
“You’re drunk,” he bites out as his fingers dig into the sleeves of my t-shirt.
“I’m not,” I say automatically, staring up at him, my hand catching hold of his shirt at his chest.
Soft, soft fabric hiding hard, sculpted pecs that I’ve seen on summer days when he takes his shirt off and mows the lawn.
“I can smell it on you,” he growls.
“I could be a little tipsy though,” I reply quickly.
His eyes – those gorgeous eyes – narrow.
“But only because it’s my birthday,” I add.
“So you thought taking it out on your liver was a good idea.”
“No. I was just… listening to this song and it made me want a piña colada.”
“Unless it’s your twenty-first birthday, which I don’t think it is, you should’ve made it a virgin.”
“I’m eighteen.”