Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Nope.” I sit upright in bed and stare at the bedroom door.
He didn’t close it all the way, but there are no sounds from downstairs filtering into the room.
Leaving his bed in a tangle of sheets is intentional. I don’t want him to forget that I was there. No matter how much he tried to keep me from knowing what holding me did to him, the truth was below the belt, his hardness impossible to escape.
As I cross the hall to the bathroom, I run fingers through my tangled hair. I avoid the mirror for as long as I can, but when I face it fully for the first time, I realize that even a good night’s sleep isn’t enough to keep the purple bruising from under my eyes. My stress levels are through the roof, and the evidence shows. My skin no longer has the same glow, my hair is in desperate need of a blowout, and the paint on my nails is dull. I’ve never felt so frumpy in my life.
I grab a change of clothes from my room and head back into the bathroom for a shower. This time, in the light of day, I feel safer and manage to wash and condition my hair. A quick search of the cabinets doesn’t turn up a blow dryer, so my damp locks just end up in a tangle on the top of my head. I don’t bother with makeup, and I frown at imagining what Dani would say if she saw me walking down the stairs in jeans, a loose shirt meant for lounging, makeup-less with my hair a mess.
“She’d probably be more worried about where you slept last night than your appearance,” I mumble as I cross the room, heading to the kitchen.
I huff a laugh because I know that’s not true. She would cup her hand over her mouth as her eyes skated over my body. She’d expertly somehow insult my appearance while giving me shit about sleeping in the same bed as her ex. She’s a pro at encompassing all faults into a single conversation. It’s a skill she perfected many years ago.
Deacon isn’t in the kitchen, but the note on the counter directing me to the oven for breakfast brings a smile to my face. Having not eaten much last night, my stomach growls when I pull the oven door open and grab the plate of food. I’m not big on eating first thing in the morning, but I scarf down the eggs, sausage links, and toast while standing at the counter.
I wash the dishes and don’t waste another second in the house. I refuse to let things get any weirder between Deacon and me and avoiding him all day will only do just that.
For some reason, I expect to find him sipping coffee on the front porch like I’ve seen men do in western movies, but the chairs are vacant. Lifting my arm to ward off the bright sunlight, I cross the yard and head to the huge barn across the field on the off chance that is where Deacon is. The old truck that was in the driveway when we arrived yesterday is still parked, so that gives me hope that he hasn’t left me stranded on the property.
Not only do I find Deacon in the barn, he’s somehow poured his thick thighs and perfect ass into a pair of jeans that look like a second skin. I’m struck stupid watching him move, his back muscles rippling under his thin t-shirt, that it takes several long moments before I realize he isn’t alone. Only it isn’t a person he’s mumbling to in a low tone. Gloved hands scratch down the white face of a gorgeous horse. The sight of the huge animal stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of horses,” Deacon says over his shoulder with a bright smile.
Has he ever looked at me that way before? Has he ever seen me and not felt like running in the other direction?
“She won’t bite,” Deacon assures me when all I can do is stand and stare.
The horse snorts, lowering its head and nudging Deacon’s hand when it stills on her face.
“I grew up in the city,” I remind him. “I’ve never been around big animals.”
Or any animals for that matter. My parents love supporting all forms of nature and animals through charity events, but the closest I got to having a pet growing up was a squirrel that would come into the backyard every once in a while.
“No riding lessons for you?”
“No,” I answer with a roughness to my voice I don’t recognize, my attention torn between the expanse of his back and the beautiful creature he’s reverently running his hands over.
I run my teeth over my bottom lip as I inch closer, and Deacon steps to the side, his hand still on the horse’s face.