Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Couldn’t be bothered.
He’s wearing faded jeans, a no-frills white tee, his feet bare. Add the chipped mug in his hand and the man should look slovenly—but somehow, on him, it translates to a very bedroomy vibe.
I suppose it could be… sexy. If you were into that sort of thing. Which I am not.
“Should I turn around?” he asks, idly lifting the mug to his mouth and taking a sip. His fingers are long and tan, making me wonder if his recent trip was to somewhere sunny.
“Turn around?” I repeat.
“You know. Give you a nice long look at the back side as well?”
I give an intentionally dismissive little sniff. “I suppose it’s understandable you’d want to flatter yourself. If not you, then who?”
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly in a not-quite smile, and he takes another sip from his mug. His eyes are a dark blue, and completely unreadable as he gives me an unsubtle once-over.
I’m half braced for some sort of insult, given that I’m not yet showered. I’m wearing the same oversized sweater as last night, my hair’s in a limp ponytail, and I’ve misplaced the cute glasses I wear each morning before putting in my contacts, so I’m wearing an old pair, which are a little too big for my face, and with an outdated prescription to boot.
Not so outdated, however, that I can’t see he’s not exactly dazzled by my appearance, and that my bedroomy vibe is not quite as alluring as his.
“You always spend your mornings like this?” I ask. “Lurking about, hoping a finger will poke through the ivy wall so you can startle your neighbor?”
“I’m not the one doing the poking,” he says. “And yes, I do enjoy starting my mornings in the outdoors. Or, I did. Lillian’s not nearly as loud as you.”
I frown. “Again, I am not noisy or loud.”
“You talk to yourself.”
“I do not.”
He sips his coffee and says nothing as he continues to study me.
Refocusing on my cause, I take a deep breath. “So. Archer. Apparently, we’re meant to mend fences.”
His eyebrows go up. “We’re meant to? According to whom?”
Damn. I do appreciate a man who drops a grammatically appropriate whom.
“My horoscope,” I say, lifting my chin and daring him to mock.
He accepts the dare because his eyes roll. “Oh no. You’re one of those.”
“One of those?” I ask, sounding awfully affronted for someone who just a few months ago might have thought the same thing, if not have been rude enough to say it aloud.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding not regretful in the least. “By all means, mend fences. I’m happy to hear your apology.”
“My apology? For what?!” I exclaim, forgetting all about my horoscope’s gentle lecture.
“You tell me.” Archer shrugs. “You’re the one who thought there was a fence to mend. I didn’t realize we had beef.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Beef. Do people still say that?”
He sips his coffee again. “Do I look like I’m stressing over whether or not my vocabulary is current?”
“You look like someone who isn’t stressing whether his haircut is current.”
Archer cocks his head to the side, lifting a finger to his ear. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That was our fragile fence. Splintering further.”
“Only because you keep hammering it with ill manners.”
“Says the woman who charged over to my front yard at 7 a.m. uninvited.”
He has a solid point there, but I will not be admitting it.
“Let’s start over,” I say, forcing a smile. “Let’s pretend we’re meeting now for the first time, and last night never happened.”
I walk toward him, noting that for a man who seems not to care about his appearance, he certainly smells good. Clean, but a little enigmatic as well. The sort of scent you can’t quite put your finger on.
I extend my right hand. “Hi. I’m Miranda.”
“Don’t you mean, Dr. Miranda Reed, PhD?”
I narrow my eyes and he rolls his again before shifting his mug to his left hand and extending his right. “You have a rather intense gaze, Randy. Are you always so serious?”
The handshake is meant to be perfunctory, more about the symbolism than contact itself, so I don’t appreciate in the slightest the little of crackle of awareness when his much larger palm closes around mine.
Startled, I lift my gaze to his, and his blue eyes narrow ever so slightly. “What else did your horoscope have to say? You don’t seem the type, by the way.”
“What type?”
“The woo-woo type. Aren’t doctors supposed to be logical? Not think the moon determines our mood, or whatever?”
I tug my hand away, which takes a second longer than it should, because his fingers take a bit too long to relinquish mine. Probably to annoy me.
“It’s a new thing.” I give my hand a little shake as I try to sort my thoughts, ignoring the way he notices and gives another of those half smirks at the gesture.