Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
And that shit?
That is not only the last thing I need…it’s the last shit I should be thinking about.
Craving.
Even if it’s been years since I’ve wanted to be with someone let alone actually done it.
“Hungry?” Kipp warmly questions from the other side of the glass prior to showcasing a plate in his hands. “I reheated it.”
Rather than answer, I return to darkening the freshly drawn letters my medical condition has me impulsively creating. “Where’s your keeper?”
“Went to bed early.”
“Why?”
“Said I’d do the dishes.”
“Why?”
“So that he’d go to bed early.”
His answer successfully pulls my stare up to see him smirking.
Beaming.
Effortlessly burning a hole in the barbwire, I have twisted around my heart.
Despite his irresistibly dreamy demeanor, I keep my timbre even, “Why?”
“Wanted to get a peek under that hood.”
Cocking an eyebrow is attached to salacious smile.
“The um…the…uh…” Kipp kicks his head to the side. “The car.”
“Mmm,” is the only retort he receives as I move onto writing a new word beside the last.
“Not your top.”
“You don’t wanna see under my top?”
“Well, I mean I do, but-” the curious glance he’s given simply makes him stutter more. “Th-th-that’s not – See that didn’t – And you said-”
An amused hum is accompanied by me slipping the edge of the pen top between my teeth.
“I like cars,” Kipp innocently confesses. “I like what they’re made of. The sounds they make. The difference changing the tiniest part can make. I-I-I-I like knowing what they’re capable of especially when you treat them right instead of wrong. Give them love instead of neglect.”
Wonder if the same can be said about his dating life.
Not that I’m looking to check out his profile.
Or his tow master general’s.
Or both at once which would be something totally foreign for me.
But not inconceivable.
“I live and breathe and think cars. All the time…They’re almost like…giant…jigsaw puzzles.” Now pleased with his analogy, he eagerly nods. “And I like puzzles.” His smile once more becomes rather boyish. “Of all kinds. I’m just the best at car ones. And ones that look like cars.”
I can’t stop myself from cooing, “How are you this adorably cuddly and your boss-”
“Co-Owner.”
“-that Rage Against the Machine dickish?”
“Nolan’s really not that bad. Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you.”
He does his best to hide the hurt that’s flashed in his expression yet fails. “His bark is usually worse than his actual bite.”
“Then might I suggest you invest in a shock collar?”
Kipp helplessly laughs, his head tipped slightly back, completely carefree. He’s open and vulnerable and wordlessly inviting me to join him.
To have the tiniest taste of what that’s like.
What that could be like.
And God help me because even the littlest drop of it is intoxicating.
“Nolan’s a good man,” Kipp proclaims, tone still warm and welcoming. “He jus’ doesn’t like to let people know he cares.”
“Mission. Fucking. Accomplished.”
More laughter.
Bigger smiles.
Brighter eyes.
Geez, he’s just like a little white line in the bathroom of a corporate charity event promising me a good time I know will rewrite my whole fucking existence without my permission.
“He cares in his own ways.”
“Is that the right wording for telling you to make sure you take the office keys upstairs with you so that I don’t try to steal shit?”
“It’s what I call him making meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob for dinner.”
Cluelessness immediately appears on my face.
“We were supposed to have leftover pizza.”
“Still don’t follow.”
“He suddenly decides to make a hot meal – a hot meal with enough for at least three people – instead of just stuffin’ his face with cold cardboard, and you really can’t follow the track I’ve lined with bright orange cones?”
His snark successfully drops my jaw, which seems to be what he wanted considering how wide he’s now grinning.
“When’s the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”
I don’t answer.
“When’s the last time you had more than a Kit Kat bar?”
Alluding to my earlier comment causes me to smirk against my own volition.
“Why don’t you do us both a favor and eat it while it’s still hot?” Kipp suggests with a little less room for an argument. “You don’t deserve cold food, and I don’t wanna have to haul my ass back upstairs to microwave it again.”
Ignoring the hunger pains in my stomach grows impossible when he tips the plate forward just enough to see the butter dollops sliding around the white mountain of mashed awesomeness.
I don’t even remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal that I didn’t have to make let alone one that couldn’t be made in fifteen minutes or less for fear of being watched through the cracks of the blocked windows.
And freshly mashed potatoes? Hell, I know I haven’t had those since my parents died almost four years ago. Mom would make them for Thanksgiving because they were my favorite. She would then turn around and make Dad whipped sweet potatoes because they were his. The ironic shit about all of that was the fact she herself did not eat potatoes.