Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
I’d just have to suck it up and deal with Cooper and his stupid, evil, gorgeous girlfriends. Yup, that’d work. All I needed to do was think of him as convenient eye candy, like the guys in those sexy firefighter calendars. Fun to look at, impossible to touch, and not quite real.
I could handle this.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, TWO WEEKS LATER
“Bring more wine,” I hissed into the phone. “He’s taking off his shirt and I’m starting to overheat.”
“Does he have tattoos?” my best friend, Carrie, asked in a harsh whisper. “I keep imagining tattoos swirling all over that chest of his, and . . . Oh God. I think I need to change my panties.”
“No tats that I can see. But he’s getting sweaty.”
“Do you think two bottles will be enough?”
Shaking my head slowly, I sighed as Cooper stopped the lawn mower long enough to take a deep drink of water. God, the way his throat moved when he swallowed . . . and those muscles bunching in his back. Damn.
“Three. Better be safe. It’s a big yard.”
• • •
Generally speaking, I’m not the kind of girl who drinks during the day. I mean, I will. Sometimes. You know, like at a Fourth of July BBQ where people start cracking beers around one in the afternoon? But this was a Sunday and I had four hundred caramels—a full week’s orders—to package for the courier first thing the next morning. A hangover wasn’t on the agenda.
Seriously, though.
He’d taken off his shirt.
Why the hell was I putting myself through this? And more importantly, why had I moved him into the apartment that shared a wall with my own childhood bedroom like some total creeper? There was another vacant unit around the back side of the building.
Lust.
Yup. I was woman enough to own it. Tinker Garrett, aged thirty-six, was in lust with Cooper Romero. The man was so damned easy on the eyes that it caused me physical pain. Okay, not pain. Warm tinglies. And he was exactly what I needed, too. According to the rental application that I’d belatedly asked him to fill out, he was two years older than me. Should’ve been perfect, right? Too bad he was into twenty-year-old nutjobs with small boobs and tight asses.
Speaking of Talia, I’d already heard far more than I wanted to from her since he’d moved in.
Specifically, I heard her screaming during sex. Screaming about how good he was, screaming how much she wanted him, screaming instructions with a sense of sexual entitlement I pretended to despise but secretly made me feel jealous.
Fucking bitch.
Gah. I forced myself away from the window, looking around the faded living room of my family home. I’d been born upstairs in the same bedroom I slept in now. Somehow, despite the fact that I had a college degree, thriving business, and one failed marriage behind me, I’d landed right where I started.
Of course, I loved the building in my own weird way. Grandpa had built it back in 1922, and he’d built it to last. Unfortunately, even good construction needs maintenance, and after Mom died eight months back, I’d realized that Dad could barely manage getting to the kitchen without getting lost. He’d obviously been letting things slide for several years now, but I’d been too busy living my life in Seattle to notice. The place was in worse shape than I’d ever seen it.
That’s why I couldn’t evict Cooper for having a girlfriend who wasn’t me. Well, that and the law and the general sense of decency and fair play my parents raised me with, but I swear—if it weren’t for all that, he’d be out on his ass. I took another deep swig of the wine, hoping Carrie didn’t fuck around on her way over.
Jerk.
Sexy, beautiful jerk . . .
Grabbing my glass of wine, I peered through the window so I could see him better.
“Tricia?” my dad called, his voice wavering. “Is that you in the living room? Did they deliver my package?”
“It’s me, Dad,” I replied, tearing my eyes away from Cooper. “And it’s Tinker, remember?”
I watched as my big, strong father—my childhood hero—stared at me, confusion written all over his face.
“I’m waiting for the parts,” he said slowly. “Want to rebuild the carburetor on Tricia’s T-bird, but I don’t have the parts I need. Did you take them?”
“Dad, Mom isn’t with us anymore,” I reminded him softly. “And you sold the T-bird years ago.”
He stared at me blankly.
“I guess I forgot,” he finally admitted. “Sometimes I do that . . .”
No shit.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, walking over to give him a hug. “Hey, my friend Carrie is coming over in a little while. We’re going to have some girl time—just a heads-up, okay?”
He patted my back absently, then kissed the side of my head.
“That sounds nice. You kids have fun, but not too much TV, okay? Rots your brains.”