Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
She chuckled as she shut the front door behind her. “Don’t know why I bother. There’s a freaking hole above me, so it’s not like I’m keeping out the cold.” She moved over the gathering pile of snow and headed up the hall to the room that had soft, flickering light coming from the door.
Iris walked in and immediately put her gaze to the wall where she’d seen one of the heavier chairs that hadn’t succumbed to the mistreatment of the building. After she’d dragged it near the fire and snagged a second chair, she paused as she tied one of the knots to make the clothesline. Close enough to hang and dry his clothing but not enough to divert the heat from where they needed it. On them.
Where did he go?
“Bradford?” Iris turned around but didn’t see him. She frowned and swiftly tied the second knot. Then she made another three-sixty. Still no other human in the room with her.
Piros lay near the fire, without a care in the world. Hell, he looked like he slept. Iris picked up Bradford’s wet clothing, which was really hers, and hung them over the rope. After placing a log on the seat of each chair to add weight, she went back to the door.
Did he have a concussion I didn’t notice? What if he’s somewhere else in the house, unconscious and needing me to find him?
Shit.
With a final look at the fire, she’d not been outside that long she didn’t suppose and it wasn’t that low, she headed out to the rest of the house. Not happy about this. He had been injured, then trekked outside in the cold in nothing more than sweats and a sweatshirt with mittens and shoes that weren’t good for anything other than a boardroom or a bar.
“I’m going to kill him,” she muttered, marching by the kitchen. “I’m going to put my hands around his neck and strangle him. Until he no longer breathes. Yep, going to kill him.”
“Who are you going to kill?”
She jumped, hand to her throat. “Holy fuck! You scared the shit out of me.” Iris rushed in the room and smacked his chest. “I was worried that you had wandered off and had fallen, that perhaps you had a concussion I didn’t know about.”
Stepping closer, she hit him again, her relief overwhelming her common sense. She shouldn’t be physically assaulting him. He gripped her wrist, holding her palm to his chest.
“And so you wanted to beat me in case I wasn’t hurt?”
She froze as the realization slammed into her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”
He squeezed his hold. “I was kidding. I was in here hiding out because, well, this is fucking embarrassing.”
She blinked and stared at him through the near-complete darkness. Iris sucked in a sharp breath as she realized what he meant. He was wearing the outfit she’d found in the bag on the plane.
A man who looked like the actor who played Oliver Queen on Arrow, yet even more rugged and sexy, stood before her wearing a unicorn onesie, complete with horn and tail.
“Oh,” she mumbled.
He inched closer to her, reminding her she’d not pulled her hand off his chest yet.
The hood wasn’t up over his head but bunched around his shoulders. Those wide, powerful shoulders. God, they shouldn’t be so fucking sexy.
Especially ones that currently were covered by pastel polar fleece with slightly darker stars on it.
“That it? That all you have to say?”
She opened her mouth, nothing came out. Iris closed it and tried again.
“Oh my,” she said, sounding remarkably similar to George Takei.
Bradford Rhodes stared at the woman in front of him. A woman who still had her hand on his chest, even though he wore this fucking unicorn onesie. She had been right, he was much warmer than he’d been in the wet clothing.
His dignity had vacated him, however. Like out of the stratosphere. Were his brothers here, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Not ever. Thankfully they weren’t.
Didn’t change the fact he looked like someone had vomited up a rainbow, slapped a tail on his ass and given him a hoodie with a horn and, to complete the incredible look, decided, yes, it could only look better if there were more pastels on it in star form.
Warmth. Finally. He would focus on the fact he was warm, not his attire. Aside from when he’d been curled up beneath the bedding with the woman in front of him, since the fucking plane had gone down, he’d not felt warmth, just the cold. The endless, biting cold.
Bradford swiped his tongue along his lower lip, not caring it was going to crack from the cold later. Right now it was that or kiss this woman who confused the hell out of him even while she aroused him to heights no other had.