Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I fall asleep at some point, worn out and weak. When I wake up, it’s morning, and I’m alone. My throat is sore, and my eyes burn. The bedroom is hot, the air heavy and oppressive. I stumble to the bathroom and wince when I catch sight of my puffy eyes and blotchy skin.
A cool shower does a lot to revive me. I brush my teeth and put on a tank and shorts. My wet hair keeps me fairly comfortable, but it’s too hot. And too silent. I realize the power is out and sigh, shuffling my way to the kitchen.
I stop at the sight of Killian’s broad back as he stands before my counter. Shirtless and wearing army green shorts that cling to his trim hips and tight butt, he moves with grace. I take a moment to admire the way the muscles on his back bunch and flex beneath taut, tan skin, and how his long bare feet flex when he shifts his weight to grab a couple of forks. Weird that I notice his feet, but seeing them seems intimate somehow.
He must feel my stare because he turns and gives me a soft look. “Hey. Power is out. I made fruit salad—if you can call chopped peaches, oranges, and one banana fruit salad—because that’s all there was.”
He’s adorable. Still, I hover by the kitchen entrance. I think of how I lost my shit last night. No one has seen me that way since I was a kid. Not even my parents. Maybe he gets my embarrassment, because he sets down a big bowl of roughly chopped fruit and holds out a fork.
“Today, we shall eat from the trough. Later we shall play Fun with Water Hoses.” His gives me a cheeky smile. “You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to payback.”
“Yeah, I bet.” I take a bite of sun-ripe peach. “Never mind the fact that I was performing a community service.”
“Don’t worry, Elly May. I’ll be kind. Ish.”
We grin at each other like idiots, and then his phone rings, the muffled sound coming from his pocket. His smile fades as he reaches down to turn it off.
“You’re not even going to look and see who it is?” I ask.
He shrugs and stabs a peach chunk with his fork. “Don’t need to. That’s my manager’s ringtone, Scottie.
“And you don’t want to talk to him?”
“Not particularly.” He spears another piece of fruit like he’s hunting game. “He just wants to talk business and…” Killian gives me a large, kind of fake smile. Anger and irritation flicker in his eyes. “I’m on vacation.”
“Well, all right then.” I try for teasing, but my mouth is stiff.
A lead weight settles in my gut. His manager wants him to go back. That much is clear. No matter how much Killian wants to enjoy his vacation, real life is still waiting for him. And eventually, I’m going to lose him to it.
“Thanks, by the way,” I rasp, hating the soreness in my throat.
He shakes his head. “It’s a horrible fruit salad, babe. And we both know it.”
“No, I mean for being there… Here.”
Killian looks at me for a moment, his brows drawing close; then he rests his hand over mine. It’s warm and heavy, his grip gentle but strong. “Thanks for letting me.”
Jesus. I’m in danger of clinging to his hand and blubbering. I need to get a grip. I lift up a slice of mangled orange. “You know, it’s ideal to include at least a little of the fruit with the rind.”
His lips twitch. “How about the seeds, Martha Stewart? Are they okay?” He flicks one at me before I can answer.
As I prepare to launch a banana in retaliation, relief eases the tightness in my chest. This, I can handle.
Chapter Eight
Libby
Usually after a storm, things cool down; the land gets to breathe a bit. Not so here. Heat settles like a thick blanket, smothering everything in its wake, turning the world humid, heavy, and slow. With the power out, there’s not a thing to do but wallow. Even going to the beach is useless. The full summer sun scorches the sand, and as soon as you leave the ocean, you’re baking, sandy, and miserable.
I settle for lounging on the porch’s sleeping couch, the shades lowered against the sun, and every now and then stealing a lump of the rapidly melting ice I’ve filled my cooler with. Cotton shorts and a thin tank is all I can manage, and for once, I’m grateful for my small boobs because it means I can comfortably go bra free.
Or maybe not. I’m all too aware of the ribbed fabric clinging to my damp skin, outlining my shape. But what can I do? I’m not willing to suffer this heat any further by putting on more clothes, so if Killian happens to get an eye-full, so be it.