Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Three. Four is a lucky clover,” I say to answer the most important part of that ramble. “Let me help you.” It’s not a question this time. The less contact she has with the poison ivy, the better off she’ll be. Luckily, I’m one of the fifteen percent of people who aren’t allergic, a fact I take advantage of in situations like this.
I help her reverse slowly and invisibly out of my hiding spot, and we make our way carefully back to our cabin, where I guide Janey to the bathroom after a quick stop in the kitchen.
“Strip. You need a cold shower and a wash with dish soap.”
She covers her mouth as she laughs. “Nice try, but I’m not getting naked in front of you.”
“Don’t touch your face,” I warn, and her hands fall to her sides. “It’s even worse on thin-skinned areas like the lips, eyelids, or nostrils.”
Contrary to her words, she looks like she wants to rip her clothes off, not to seduce me, but to scratch the fuck out of herself. All over. Because her wiggle worming has progressed to spastic belly dancing, which I take as a sign that the itch is getting worse.
“Fine.” I set the bottle of soap on the edge of the tub and turn to leave. “Cold water. Lots of soap. Don’t miss an inch or it’ll continue to irritate and then spread.”
“Yes, sir,” she snaps with an approximation of a salute and a broad smile. For the first time, I notice that one of her teeth has a tiny chip out of it, and I wonder what the story is about that. I’m sure it’s interesting. Before I can ask, she pushes me toward the door desperately.
Her hands flat on my chest feel . . . something. I don’t know, they just feel. I don’t have much contact with people these days, and even the small, teasing gesture is intimate in my book. I don’t move an inch. I might even inhale slightly to press my chest into her hands more because her eyes widen. “Calamine lotion’s in the first aid kit under the sink,” I force out reluctantly, which sounds like I’m snapping at her.
I leave before she can call me on being a roller coaster of a motherfucker, which would be one hundred percent warranted.
That was stupid. I don’t do connections, but here I am, wanting to spend time with Janey when I should be working and not stopping her from touching me. I stomp out to the living room and fall to the couch with a heavy exhale to stare at the dark box of the fireplace, trying to discern what the hell is wrong with me.
I don’t people. Yeah, it’s a verb now. Look it up. Or if it’s not, it should be because I’m not good at it. To Janey, I’m probably a grunting caveman-slash-hermit loner who’s so out of practice, he can’t carry one side of a conversation, so she has to do it all. Maybe that’s why she keeps talking so much? And I’m the dumbass listening to her and enjoying the sound of her voice and the way her lips look as they form words.
Fucking idiot.
I need to know if there’s a missing family member Mr. Webster might be meeting with, though sending a text to my assistant is more of an intentional distraction than anything.
Target hosted a guest. Doesn’t look intimate. Research his family tree—daughter, niece? Blonde, late teens, early- to mid-twenties at most.
I get back a simple check mark in a green box. My assistant Louisa is more of a hermit than I am and abhors conversation. We work remarkably well together.
I hear the shower turn off and the screech of the metal shower curtain rings as it slides open. Behind two inches of wood is a naked, wet Janey, a thought that I should dismiss instantly, but rather, I remember what she looked like running away. The curve of her back, the fullness of her ass, the halo of her hair, the tattoo I want an up-close and personal look at.
I hear her mutter, “Shit.” A moment later, she calls out, “Hey, uh, Cole? Can you help me with something?”
Anything.
“What’s wrong?” I ask at the door warily, and it opens a crack.
“I can’t reach all of my back for the lotion,” she explains. “Could you?” Her hand snakes through, holding out the bottle of pink, creamy liquid.
“Yeah,” I answer, hearing the huskiness of my own voice. I can’t help it, it’s an instinctual reaction to her. When she steps away, I push my way into the bathroom, and she yelps in surprise but gives me her back.
Leaning against the counter, her eyes meet mine in the mirror. Slowly, she inches her tank top up, keeping the front pressed to her breasts and the back lifted almost to her shoulder blades. My eyes rove her skin, seeing bits of pink chalkiness where she’s already coated herself, but I also see the area she’s talking about where the blotchy, irritated patch is uncovered by the calamine.