Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I threw up a hand. “Listen, I’m sure this is no big thing. It isn’t unusual to have guys fixate on me. It’s happened before. They’re typically harmless.”
Mo had nothing to say to that either.
“Or Smithie has a word with him or sends in Joaquim or Jaylen and they back off. If they had the guts, they’d just approach me from the beginning.”
Mo still didn’t feel like replying.
“If Smithie’s freaked and called in Hawk, that says to me I should be seriously freaked,” I pointed out.
Again, no input from Mo, but it cut through my freakout that he might not be moving his mouth, but his eyes said, “Yes, you should be seriously freaked.”
So I went from getting seriously freaked to being seriously freaking freaked.
“Ohmigod,” I whispered, my hand drifting to my belly. “This is bad.”
That was when it happened.
That exact moment was when my entire life changed.
His gaze moved down to my belly.
And his face went from harsh and impassive to wholly beautiful.
This was because it softened.
Whatever was happening, he hated it was happening.
Whatever had Smithie freaked, me freaked, Hawk Delgado (of all people) pulled in to deal with it, Mo didn’t want it to be happening. He didn’t want me to feel what I was feeling, what I would feel until this situation was brought to an end.
He hated I would be feeling that too.
He was there. He was going to get paid to protect me from it.
But it was not just a job to him.
It was more.
He did not know me, and I wasn’t just a great pair of tits and a fantastic head of hair any guy with a dick would want to see go unharmed.
I was a person who was feeling something sucky and he was a person who didn’t like people to feel sucky.
No.
He hated it.
That was the guy he was.
Yes, my entire life just changed.
“Mo,” I called quietly.
His attention returned to my face.
“It’s gonna be okay,” I assured him.
That strong chin dipped again.
Okay.
Moving on.
“Do you want something to eat?” I asked.
“Tour,” he grunted, but he did it not looking around.
He needed to know the lay of the land.
But now I had another problem.
I was nervous.
Actually nervous.
I didn’t get nervous around guys.
Handsome. Confident. Built. Successful. Rich. It didn’t matter to me.
Were they funny?
That mattered.
Were they smart?
That mattered too.
Did they have goals in life and weren’t afraid to do the work to attain them?
That totally mattered.
Did they define me as a stripper in all that conveyed to the judgmental world who didn’t get I really couldn’t give that first fuck what people thought about what I did to make a (very good) living? Thus, they thought I was sleazy and easy and could get in my pants and then brag they tagged a stripper and not even remember my name?
That definitely mattered.
I couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous around a guy.
In fact, I didn’t think there was a time I’d been nervous around a guy.
But I had this insane desire to play with my hair, was worried I’d trip when I turned around to guide him into my house, and worst of all, I was suddenly completely focused on not doing anything that would make him think I was a dork, an idiot, or anything the slightest bit unattractive.
Shit.
I successfully made the pivot and moved him through the short foyer of my Denver Tudor into the living room and immediately regretted decorating in mostly white.
White with gray veins in the marble of the fireplace. Boxy white contemporary sofa (though it had big, colored throw pillows and warm but light-colored wood feet). White walls. White curtains (though they hung at the sides and the Roman shades were bamboo). Even the rug was mostly white with a gray geometric pattern. But the floors were oak (however, it was white oak, gah!).
Did Mo like fresh, clean and bright?
Did he have a problem with the salmon accents?
I mean, my armchair was salmon. Was that too feminine?
And if he sat on the sofa, would he bang his head on my standing lamp that arched over the side? (Thank God it was black.)
“Uh,” I swept out a hand, making a mental note to adjust the arch of the lamp, and turned to him, “this is the living room.”
He said nothing.
But he walked to the window closest to him and my blinds—which were only partially lowered because they looked good that way, giving the room a warmer feeling from the wood—came down because he made that so.
He then lumbered over to the other window and did the same.
“Okay, so no one looking in, right?” I guessed, feeling the room turn suddenly chilly, and not because the sun was no longer shining into it.
He turned and dipped his chin to me.
He then looked toward the open plan dining room and kitchen that fed from the living room and moved there.