Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94546 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
“Depends.” My one word doesn’t have quite the same level of insinuation his voice had, but there’s definitely an edge of playfulness to it. “Are they pricy?”
When I jerk my head to his polished black shoes that gleam as brightly as my cheeks when he has to rock his hips back to take in his fancy footwear, he mutters, “Not particularly.” He returns his eyes to my face. They’re even more flirty now. “But even if they were, I have another half a dozen in my closet, so I’m sure I can face the injustice if they go to horse poo heaven.”
His reply reveals that he’s been watching me longer than a couple of seconds, but before I can drill him about his stalker ways, he pinches the crease in his trousers, then heads my way like the half-inch leverage he gave his pants will save them from being ruined by manure.
I’d hate to tell him he’s wrong. I am wearing a miniskirt, but I’m still on the verge of checking it for splatters of mud and poo.
“When you next see your tailor, can you please keep my name out of your mouth?” I request when his slippery scoot across the sloshy terrain almost sees him landing butt first onto a steaming pile of poo. “The last thing a fashionable lass wants is her name muttered in disdain while discussing fabrics.”
“I could.” He skates another two sloshy steps before locking his eyes with mine. They’re somewhat tormented but still gleaming like a kid at a toy store with an unlimited budget. “But I’d have to know your name to do that.”
“Smooth,” I murmur, smitten by the hope in his voice but also successfully concealing that fact. “Does that line often work for you?”
His shy grin—Kill. Me. Now.
It could only be hotter if it were flashed while his head was between my legs.
My highly inappropriate thoughts detour when he answers, “Not at all.” He twists his kissable lips to lower the leverage of his smile. “But I’ve never given it a whirl while dodging horse secretions as if they are landmines.”
“Secretions? In my part of the country, we just call them poo.” I make sure my Jersey girl heritage rings true in my tone during the second half of my reply. It is weird of me to do, but alas, today seems to be a day of extraordinary weirdness. First, the miniskirt. Now, flirting with a stranger like I have nothing to lose.
After sidestepping a grassy landmine, the handsome stranger bands his arm around my waist then tugs me into his body. I knew he was fit from the way his tailored jacket couldn’t hide the ridges in his dress shirt, but I had no idea it would be this impressive. “What makes you think your part of the country isn’t also my part of the country?”
“Your Rolex,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It was either keep our conversation alight or dig my nose into his neck and take a long whiff of his expensive cologne. I went for the one that wouldn’t have my wrists slapped with handcuffs. My family name has enough controversy staining it. I don’t need to sling more mud at it. “You also don’t have the accent for my side of the country.”
“Ahh… I learned to flatten my tongue right around the time I hit puberty.” I grin like a fool when his reply comes out with a twang I’ve stupidly missed the past three years. “Does this sound more authentic? Once I get you out of here, we should go for cawfee.”
The Jerseyite delivery of his last word has me scanning the area, certain the goop coating the bottom of my shoes is from the muddy sands of Plemont Bay instead of a horse’s bathroom.
When I fail to find another Jersey native in sight, I focus on the stranger wrangling my pump from a muddy grave. His slide, yank, and pull maneuver is loosening my shoe from its tight confines.
The same could be said for my legs.
I’ve never had a man as handsome as him fondle my thighs without an introduction, but instead of my body opposing the idea of strangers getting freaky, it relishes it.
I guess sometimes it’s okay not walking in a straight line.
What?
Needing to divert this wreck from imminent disaster, I ask, “Why do you hide your accent?” I have a good reason to keep my family lineage on the down-low, but he doesn’t seem like the type to be drowning in controversy.
He grunts and groans before he eventually spits out, “For what I suspect is the same reason you went over instead of around.” When he peers at me through a strand of black hair that has fallen in front of his almost as dark eyes, he mutters, “Sometimes it’s easier to avoid an interrogation than welcome one.” His final word comes out with a grunt. He isn’t frustrated about the inquisitive bomb his tone set off in my eyes. Well, I don’t think he is. I don’t know him well enough to read his invisible ‘fuck-off’ prompts. He merely seems more appreciative of the removal of my stiletto from the sloshy ground than annoyed about my line of questioning.