Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
The milkshakes in my hand start getting a second shaking because I’m trembling with all the subtlety of a cement mixer. I still manage to put one foot in front of the other, all while hoping I don’t go ass over tits out here since the yard is a bit of a minefield, and I’m, well, me.
Van stands in the corner, a column of strength hewn from stone. He has those long, lean lines so symmetrical that they make a person’s mouth water and their eyes tear up from the sheer natural grace of them. He’s also the most cut individual I’ve ever seen. He’s put on muscle since high school and filled out in that traditional boy-to-man way that makes my panties feel like they’ve been caught in a thundershower. Fuck that. If I’m being honest, my va-jay is having an internal meltdown and hyperventilating. Vagina hyperventilation is a thing. I swear it is.
“V—van,” I whisper when I’m a few feet away. I thrust the milkshake at him so hard that it drips over the side of the tall glass. I realize at the same time that both my hands are so frozen that I can barely feel them. With an internal groan, I swallow past the swarm of angry bees attacking my stomach and throat. “It’s good to see you again. Uh, here’s a milkshake. Chocolate. Because you love chocolate shakes.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, those silver eyes of his never leaving my face. He never believed in eye contact before, but he does now, to the point where it’s unnerving. I feel like he’s looking past my face, into my skull, and seeing my mush for brains going on right now because he’s so potently good-looking that all of me is mush for brains.
“Who made that?” His eyes drop to my hand like I’m a snake tamer holding a deadly viper there. One hand comes out of his pocket, and when I think he’s going to reach for the shake, he runs it through his hair instead.
It’s thick and longer than it was in high school and totally unruly, and of course, it’s not just a boring old brown. His hair is like something fancy, brown as a verb, but it’s not singed or seared or barbequed. He’s more like baking descriptors—chocolate, caramel, soft chocolate with streaks of caramel, buttery caramel. Umber? Is that a brown? Even though his hair is worn just a tad too long, it’s cut into a fuck-you style to all those who expect professionalism from hair, and it suits him perfectly. The sweep of it makes my nipples do puckery things. A few strands hang tauntingly over a hard brow, shadowing it and shading those steely gray eyes. They’re the kind of eyes that could burn a person alive. The thickest sweep of his lashes is highlighted and defined by that hair somehow, or maybe it’s because of the shadows, and his skin glows with health and vitality.
I lick my lips nervously. “Uh…Kimmy made it for you. It’s a gesture of peace.”
He snorts, and it’s unfair how attractive he is—so freaking unfair. His lips are unfair too. They’re so pouty and full for a man, and somehow, they still suit him without being an illogical feature. They only add to his attraction, not detract from it. His sculpted jaw literally looks just that. Like it was made by a master’s hand, not like how I would sculpt something if I were given tools and a rock or a piece of wood or even a lump of clay. Mine would be a disaster. But he’s not a disaster. Not one bit.
“Can I have the vanilla?”
“Sure.” I thrust out my other hand but forgot to tuck the other one back, and now I’m straight arming both. “I didn’t taste it or anything.” Shut up. Oh my god, shut up.
He takes the glass from the top and bottom like it’s something that needs to be carefully extracted from my hands without touching me. He steps back because my hand is still frozen, my hand like a claw around a glass that is no longer there. I watch as his godly lips move to the rim of the glass, and he tips the thick milkshake back, sips, and closes his eyes. His rumble of pleasure hits me in all my pleasure spots.
“Good,” he mutters.
Then, he gives me his back.
And a heck of a lot of please get lost now vibes.
So I do. Get lost that is. I walk straight back to the house. There’s something wrong with me. I’m still holding the chocolate shake out in front of me with my arm fully extended.
As soon as I step in through the patio doors, Nanny is there. She beams at me for no reason other than the fact that she’s a sweetheart. “You going to drink that, honey?”