Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 71625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I’d had to open my eyes to see what I was doing, and I’d turned only to get an eye full of naked Steel.
Wet, naked Steel.
Wet, naked Steel who was looking at me in his rear-view mirror.
Shit!
“Sorry!” I squeaked. “I forgot!”
He started to laugh. “I’ll take my peek at you when you change out of your wet clothes.”
And, ten minutes later when we were both dry, I wondered if he did indeed peek.
The expression on his face was void of anything telling, however.
Leaving me only to guess.
My guess is that he did look but that might only be my hopes and dreams talking.
Chapter 10
Some days I eat salads and go to the gym. Other days I eat three pounds of bacon and drink a dozen beers. I call it balance.
-Steel to Winnie
Winnie
Curiosity killed the cat.
In this instance, it almost killed Winnie.
Me.
Shit!
“What are you reading?”
I slapped my laptop closed and smiled guiltily.
“Nothing.”
He grunted something in reply and went to his bag for a new pair of underwear and a dry pair of jeans.
“Tomorrow I’m gonna need my flannel back!” he said. “It’s the only thing dry I have left! Plus, I’m an old man. I need to stay warm.”
I grimaced and looked down at my attire.
I was wearing his flannel shirt, but only because my own shirts just weren’t cutting it.
With the hurricane came a cool front, and that cool front was chilly to the point that I needed more clothes than I’d brought.
We’d tried to stop and pick up a sweatshirt from a drug store, but apparently along with the food on the shelves, everyone had bought all the sweatshirts they had in stock as well.
“You’re so full of shit. You’re not that old.” I headed to the bathroom door.
“I’m old.”
“Not old enough that it matters.”
He turned and gave me a long look that felt like he’d stripped me bare.
“I’m old enough to be your father.”
I laughed. “You’re not. But even if you were, why would that matter?”
“It matters because I’m old, and you’re young. You’re in the prime of your life, while I have an adult son that could be your brother. It’s just…odd.” He finally settled on.
I felt my heart beating faster. “Yes…but the heart wants what the heart wants.”
He looked away.
“And, just sayin’, but I have a sixteen-year-old.”
“But you also have a five-year-old.” He pointed out. “And an ex-husband that is a part of his life. I’ve done my civic duty…and I’m honestly over the ex game. Trust me when I say, I’m too old for you. Too jaded. Too set in my ways.”
I grunted but didn’t call him on his bullshit.
“Just…I need my shirt, okay?”
I realized that the matter was closed, and we wouldn’t be discussing it anymore…at least tonight.
Okay, then.
“Okay,” I called. “But I can wear it right now?”
He slammed the door closed.
“Yeah,” he yelled through the door. “Do you want me to leave the shower on for you?”
I moaned. “No. I already took one while you were getting dinner.”
“Okay.”
Then the shower turned on and I guiltily opened my laptop once again.
The webpage I had up was a blog that I loved to follow.
It was composed of two mothers around my age, both of whom were hilariously funny.
Today’s topic of conversation was blow jobs.
I’d never been good at blow jobs, and honestly, I didn’t have to be. Why? Because Matt didn’t like them.
Yes, I know. It was weird. What guy didn’t like blow jobs?
I’d tried to give Matt a blow job once and only once, and he’d started to freak out because my mouth was too close to him.
See, Matt had a fear of mouths.
Yes, you heard that correct.
Mouths.
He was grossed out watching me brush my teeth. He didn’t like kissing me. (And, from what I’d heard, he didn’t mind kissing Slut-Bag Angelina, which chafed.) He abhorred going to the dentist because someone was going to be doing stuff in his mouth, and the icing on the cake was his incessant need to get away from me—or our kids—if it even looked like they were going to open their mouths near him.
Dear God, there was this one time that Matt had been holding Cody when he yawned near his face. I still remember it like it was yesterday instead of years ago.
He’d been sitting on the couch, Cody—who’d only been a few months old at the time—resting on his chest. Cody had lifted his head, brought his face almost directly into Matt’s, and then yawned.
Yawned.
That was all he’d done.
And it was like Cody had projectile vomited down his throat instead of just doing a normal bodily function.
He’d practically thrown Cody across the couch.
I still remember the bounce he’d done before almost landing on the floor.
Had Conleigh not been there, catching him before he could continue his roll, he’d have landed face first on the corner of the coffee table.