Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92529 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
The two of them loaded up sleds, hauled them to the porch, and carried the wood inside the back door to line it up against the wall. They made a total of three trips before Phil was content with the amount they had. Mitchell carried up the logs and placed them in front of the rooms, letting Phil go in and add more for each fireplace.
At his room, he opened the door and pushed in, arms loaded with wood, and carried it to the tall frame log holder that was nearly empty. He dropped the logs in and swore as pain licked up his palm from the slivers that speared him.
“Fucking shit!”
“What happened?” Hope’s question came from behind him and he turned in time to see her move from the door toward him. He shook his hand and opened his mouth to tell her nothing when she scowled up at him. “Give it to me.”
Yeah, four words he would be reliving in his mind. Although with an entirely different meaning behind them.
Allowing her to take his hand, he ignored the flip of his belly at her touch and stared at her, unwilling to miss a moment of her expression.
“Christ you’re cold.”
Her voice alone pushed heat into him. “Helped Phil with bringing in more wood.”
“Phil, huh?” She moved them to the bathroom, still holding his hand.
Mitchell followed her. Willingly. The hold she had on his hand didn’t matter one bit. He would trail after her anywhere.
“Phil. Naomi’s husband.” The room was small and he couldn’t help but notice how easily the tiny space allowed her exotic scent to filter to his nose.
“I know who he is.” She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and pulled out a first-aid kit.
One he’d not even known was there. However, it would explain how she’d been able to do her own bandages.
Her fingers couldn’t even close around his wrist but her hold on him was ironclad. Not that he had any intention of moving from her.
“How can they not have tweezers in here that are worth a damn?”
“I have some.”
She snapped her head up to his and he had an uncommon urge to press his lips to hers. “Where?”
“In my pants.” When she glared he chuckled. “Really. In my pocket. My Leatherman has tweezers in it.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “And here I was thinking you were telling me you had something small in there.”
Yeah, he inched closer, loving how her eyes widened, but still she held his gaze. “Nothing in there is small.”
Her lush mouth twitched. “Are you taking it out? Or did you need me to search for it?”
Holy fuck. If this kind of amusement and happiness was what his friends had with their women, no wonder they would move the world for them.
“Anytime you want your hand in my pants, Flykra, you’re welcome to slide it in.” Using his left hand, he reached across his body to his right pocket and pulled it out. “Here you go.”
When she took it from him, he watched her as she looked at his Leatherman. It was matte hunter green and graphite.
“This is nice. Heavy.”
Mitchell swallowed his response which would definitely have been sexual in meaning.
He showed her where the tweezers were because he kind of liked her holding his hand and didn’t want her to release him to locate it. But she did and he could barely stop the whimper of disappointment. Seconds later, her right hand gripped his and she was using her left on the tweezers.
“You’re a lefty?”
She remained focused on his palm. “I’m ambidextrous but I’m more comfortable with my left for delicate things.”
There wasn’t a shred of bragging in her tone. She had simply made a statement to answer his question. Hope angled his hand and swiftly plucked out the first splinter. She didn’t stop to clean it but moved on to the second and within moments had that one pulled free as well.
Mitchell didn’t move as she cleaned his palm. Then she looked up at him, a shy smile on her face.
“I think you’re fine.”
“Likewise, Flykra.” He brushed the back of his uninjured hand along her soft cheek. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“What are you calling me?”
“Something in a different language.”
He waited as she pondered his words, taking the opportunity to slide her fingers between his. The air in the bathroom grew thick between them.
“You speak other languages?”
“I do. One of my first teammates in the pros was from Denmark and I didn’t think it was right that he had to learn our language but we weren’t expected to learn his.”
“Hmm, go figure.”
He removed the miniscule distance between them, keeping her hand entwined with his. “What?”
“I’m not used to Americans giving a damn to learn anyone else’s language. It’s been my experience they’re all ‘you’re in this country, learn to speak English,’ or ‘I’m traveling and am a guest, you should speak it to make me feel better.’”