Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Samson is angry. I don’t know if it’s stemming from jealousy or the simple fact that Beau is an asshole.
I expect that to be the end of it, but Beau apparently doesn’t like being yelled at. He swings at Samson, hitting him in the face. Then Beau puts up both fists like he’s ready for a fight, but Samson brings a hand up to his jaw and stares hard at Beau. “Are you fucking serious?”
“Yeah, I’m fucking serious,” Beau responds, still in his fighting stance.
Marcos is standing now, ready to defend Samson, but Samson doesn’t look like he cares to entertain Beau.
“Go home, Beau,” Marcos says, stepping between Beau and Samson.
Beau looks at Marcos. “How do you say asshole in Mexican?”
The only thing I hate more than a douche is a racist douche. “It’s Spanish, not Mexican,” I say. “And I think Beau is the correct translation for asshole.”
Samson lets out a small laugh when I say that. It pisses Beau off.
“Fuck you, you little rich prick. All of you can go to hell.” Beau’s face is red with rage.
“We’re in hell every time you show up,” Sara says flatly.
Beau points at Sara. “Fuck you.” He points at me. “And fuck you.”
I guess that’s where Samson draws the line. He doesn’t hit Beau, but he moves toward him fast enough to make Beau jump back. Then Beau spins around and grabs his stuff from his chair and leaves.
It’s a beautiful sight.
Samson falls into the chair, gripping his jaw. “I’ve been slapped by a girl and punched by two guys since you showed up.”
“Then stop taking my side.”
Samson looks at me with a small grin, almost as if he’s saying, “That’s not gonna happen.”
“You’re bleeding.” I grab a nearby towel and wipe his jaw. He’s got a small gash across his jawbone. Beau must have been wearing a ring. “You should put a bandage on that.”
Samson’s eyes change as he stares back at me. “I have some at the house.” He pushes out of his chair and walks around the fire, heading home.
He doesn’t even invite me or wait on me, but I could tell from his expression he wants me to follow him. I press a palm against my neck, feeling the heat rising to my skin. I stand up. I glance at Sara before I walk away.
“Remember,” she whispers. “A signal. A high five.”
I laugh and then follow Samson to his house. He’s several yards ahead of me, but he leaves his door open when he goes inside, so he knows I’m following him.
When I reach the top of the stairs, I blow out a calming breath. I don’t know why I’m nervous. We kissed last night. The hardest part is over.
I close the door when I walk inside. Samson is at the sink, wetting a paper towel. I walk into the kitchen and notice he didn’t turn any of the lights on. The only lights in the house are coming from the appliances and the moon shining through the windows.
I lean against the counter to get a look at his cut. He tilts his head so that I can inspect it. “Is it still bleeding?” he asks.
“A little.” I pull back and watch him as he presses the wet napkin against his jaw again.
“I don’t have any bandages,” he says. “I was lying.”
I nod. “I know. You don’t have shit in this house.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but there’s something heavy weighing his smile down. Whatever that heaviness is weighs me down.
He pulls the napkin away and tosses it on the counter, then he grips the edges of the counter like he’s having to hold himself back.
He’s not going to make the first move this time, no matter how much he seems like he wants to. And as nervous as I am, I want to experience a whole kiss with him, from beginning to end.
Samson’s stare is like a magnetic pull, coaxing me toward him. I step closer, my movements timid. No matter how nervous I seem, he doesn’t push it. He just waits. My heart is pounding in my chest when it’s clear to both of us that I’m about to kiss him.
It feels different than last night. It feels more significant since we’ve both spent the last day thinking about it and have obviously come to the conclusion that we both want it to happen again.
We maintain eye contact as I lift onto my toes and lightly press my lips to his. He inhales while my mouth is still against his, as if he’s summoning up patience that no longer exists inside of him.
I pull back a fraction, needing to see his reaction. His pointed gaze and parted lips are a promising hint for whatever might happen next. I don’t feel like I’ll end up running out of this kitchen again now that I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours regretting that move.