Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
It’s round and high, and I bet if I held out my hands, the whole thing would fit perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.
“I live here alone.” Her arms rise, retrieving two pizzas from the freezer, wielding them like a waitress carrying a tray of drinks, jutting out a hip as she speaks, slamming the freezer closed. “I decided I didn’t want to live with a group of girls my senior year, so I don’t, and it’s been awesome.”
Scarlett turns to face me again, pizzas in her arms, all smiles.
Under the soft lamps in her cozy little kitchen—without the earmuffs and the coat and the warm clothes—I can analyze everything about her as if it’s the first time I’m seeing her.
For the first time in four weeks, I’m seeing what she looks like under all the jackets and scarves and bulky sweaters. The chocolate-colored hair she usually keeps under a knit cap is shining under the kitchen light, wrapped up in two bite-sized buns.
Insatiably curious, I rake my inquisitive green eyes down her body in the comfort of this small room, from the top of her head to the tips of her bare toes.
They are painted a bright, brilliant, glittery blue.
Her long-sleeved top is thin and white, tight. Slim waist with picture-perfect boobs, I can’t help but notice the outline of her white bra beneath the shirt. The smooth column of her neck. Notice for the first time the silver hoops in her ears.
With her hair twisted into those buns on the top of her head, she looks prime. Like a ballerina—one that actually has tits.
Sweet and sexy, both at the same time.
My gaze lowers again.
Man, those tits. The tops of them spilling out of her bra, defined by the fabric of her shirt.
Scarlett lists her head to one side, watching me devour her. Then, “Sterling?”
“Huh?” My head gives a shake. “Sorry, what?”
“If you’re staying, can you please take your shoes off? Not to be a pain in the ass, but I wiped down the floor on my hands and knees yesterday, and I hate cleaning, so…”
Scarlett on her hands and knees…
“Staying? You mean overnight?” Please say yes, please say yes.
Scarlett laughs quietly. “No, staying for food.”
Oh. Right. “Shit, yeah—sorry, I’ll take off my shoes. Sorry.”
Another megawatt smile from her and my stomach does a high dive off a steep ledge.
I busy myself then, kicking off my sneakers by the door, content to watch her fuss about her quaint kitchen. Preheating the oven. Fetching oven mitts. Tossing the cellophane pizza wrapper into the garbage can under the sink. Wiping the errant, frozen grated mozzarella cheese off the counter and into the sink.
“Two pizzas is good, right? You can eat a whole one all by yourself, I’m assuming.”
Four weeks and she knows me well.
Pulls open the stove, round ass sticking up, sliding the two pies on the racks, then shuts them in.
“Got anything to drink?”
“In the fridge—want to help yourself while I run to my room and throw on some fuzzy socks?”
“Sure.”
I watch her retreating form as it sashays in the direction of a hallway before peeling my eyes away, making my own way to the fridge, bending to peer inside.
“What the hell?” I mutter, because, holy shit, her fridge is better stocked than mine.
Fruit, vegetables. Bagels, juice, and pasta. Lunch meat in the drawer. Bottled water. Bottled mocha frappe. Two bottles of white wine. Small boxes of orange juice. I poke what looks like leftovers and identify it by picking up the container and turning it sideways: hamburger patties. A container of spaghetti sauce and a separate one of noodles.
I could get used to a fridge like this.
Ten minutes later, Scarlett returns. I’m seated in the center of her couch, flipping through the menu on her television, when she reenters the room, crossing in front of me to claim her own spot on the sofa. Whatever perfume she’s wearing has me sniffing the air like a damn bloodhound who just caught a whiff of the bitch at a neighboring farm.
She’s changed into gray yoga pants and a gray t-shirt that says I don’t know what I’m training for but I hope it never happens and, trying not to stare too hard at her chest, I chuckle.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she flops down cross-legged on the far end of the couch, boobs bouncing when she settles into the cushions.
So bouncy I suspect she’s not wearing a bra, and I strain to locate her nipples.
Drag a palm down my face, needing to let out a puff of pent-up air, arm going to the back of the couch. Lean back into the sofa, letting my large body sink deeper into the plush cushions.
Hesitate before putting my legs up, needing to hide this impending boner in my jeans.