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)
And he didn’t until he got his bags, shut off the engine, and opened her door. Full features. Lips the color of dark cherries. Dangerous curves, ones you needed to take your time on. Damn it, his fingertips burned.
Something he definitely didn’t need to be focused on.
“Hope.” Her head angled to him and he saw the blood moving down her temple and onto her cheek. “Damn it, Hope.”
His bags could fucking sit out here if he needed to carry her. He had to get her inside.
She opened her eyes, a bit out of focus.
“I thought I imagined you.” Although wobbly, a brief upturn of her lips was there.
He leaned closer, grateful she was looking at him. “I’m real. Let’s go, we have a room.”
A small smile which didn’t fully hide her exhaustion tilted her lips. “Sure you want to do that? I may take advantage of you. Have my wicked way with you.”
Yes please.
He snapped his mind back to the here and now. It wasn’t the time to get lost in fanciful thoughts.
“A chance I’ll take.” He helped her out. “Lean on me.”
“Ohh, a song and a movie. Do you sing?”
He chuckled as he got them moving toward the building after throwing his bags on his other shoulder.
“Only in the shower.”
“Now there’s a beautiful image.” Her words were slurred now.
Mitchell squinted his eyes against the stinging snow. When she slipped the third time, he swept her up in his arms. She struggled for a moment but he tightened his grip and was fairly certain he growled at her. Keeping Hope protected as best he could, he couldn’t help but notice how perfect it felt to have her curves against him.
The going was slow but they got inside where she insisted on being placed on her own feet. Then they trekked up the stairs to the only room left. Mitchell returned to the first floor to get them signed in as two other women went up, looked at Hope, and got her patched up. Back in the room, he dug out some warmer clothing for her to put on.
As he hooked up his computer, Mitchell realized the shower was running.
“That you, Mitchell?” Her voice was lethal. Low, seductive. The kind of voice used in minds when they fantasized.
“It’s me.”
Who else did she think was in here with her? Grinding his teeth, he finished setting up. At least he could get some work done, uninterrupted.
The bathroom door opened and he glanced up.
Maybe.
Maybe he’d be able to get some work done. When that thought had passed through his mind, he’d not been thinking a damn thing about this breathtaking woman.
She walked through the steam and his heartbeat skittered out of control as his body flared to life. One of his shirts covered her to mid-thigh and beneath that she wore a pair of his workout pants.
She shrugged like she was embarrassed. “Thank you. For, you know, everything. Especially the clothes and the whole not-leaving-me-to-die-upside-down-in-a-rental-car thing. In Vermont. In winter.”
Curls. Her hair had curls.
Mitchell had the strangest urge to comfort her. Tuck some of those riotous curls behind her ears. He dug his nails into his palms, using the bite of pain to keep him in control. Not now, body.
Because the one thing he was not going to do was notice her as a woman. Just like he hadn’t noticed the array of earrings racing up the curve of her ears, the color and sparkle peeking through her hair. Or how he’d not noticed the color of her lips. Her figure. Or that in this light, her skin glowed and called to him.
Well fuck!
…
Hope Roman wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. Then sleep. This past week had been a blur of pain and loss and adding to that, she’d nearly died. She had almost hit her limit. Or she was a few leagues beyond it but hadn’t acknowledged that yet.
The only reason she was even up here in Vermont was to attend the funeral of her mentor. She should have stayed in the small town of Morgan Depot where he’d lived and been buried. Not tried to brave the winter weather and drive. But she’d needed time to process everything.
Her mentor, Karl Jones, had meant the world to her. He’d been the one man in college who’d seen her not as a statistic to fill a quota but as a brilliant and inquisitive mind he could, and did, mold into his image. He’d shared his love with her and she’d jumped at the chance to be a science journalist.
And a damn good one. Not to his level, yet, but she was just getting started. As a girl who’d been shuttled from foster family to foster family before ending up at a state home, having the complete attention of someone whose intention was to see her succeed had been eye-opening.