Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Perhaps the nickname is what keeps his words my favorite shade, “It’s protocol, Angel Cake.” He casually crosses his arms. “And that’s a word you better get used to me sayin’.”
“Gotta admit. Not my favorite P word.”
He arches a curious eyebrow. “You have a favorite P word?”
“Do you not?”
Humor doesn’t hesitate to paint itself in his expression. “Doubt it’s the same one you do.”
The perverted joke causes us both to laugh, successfully killing any lingering tension in the atmosphere.
Thankful for the shift, I do my best to keep things playful, “So when does protocol say I can get out of this mustard stained t-shirt and into real clothes?”
“You are in real clothes.”
“These are not real clothes.”
“They look pretty real to me.” His impish grin returns in full force just the way I like it. “And they felt pretty real to my bank account when I got the receipt that was just shy of a good steak dinner.”
“Hey, I didn’t tell you to break the bank to buy me something I’m never gonna wear again.”
“Never?!” Chuckles spring loose during his creeping closer. “Do you mean unlikely to wear again?”
“I mean once I get out of this shit, I’m not putting it back on.”
His teeth sink into his bottom lip as if trying to keep a groan at bay.
Seriously?
Does he want to see me topless?
Wait, is it my tits he wants to see or just someone’s? After all, I did ruin his chance at getting laid last night.
“Sorry about screwing up your date,” I meekly apologize. “I-”
“Better not even think about apologizin’ for that shit again,” Slater sweetly scolds, hands lifting to cup my face. “There is no one in this world that matters more to me than you, Angel Cake.” His thumbs softly stroke the skin underneath them. “You should know that by now.”
“Still…I didn’t mean to ruin your night or…morning more likely.”
“You didn’t.” The softness of his words blankets me as his hands fall back to his side. “I did that all on my own.”
Curiosity gets the better of my mouth prompting me to investigate, “How? How is that possible? You’re like the perfect catch!”
Unfamiliar redness suddenly appears in his cheeks. “Is that right?”
“To any woman that doesn’t snipe for the same team…uhh…yeah.” More words come rushing out of my mouth without waiting to be examined or evaluated or analyzed first. “You’re sweet. And kind. And charming. And funny. And built like The Commodores wrote that song about you but then had to change it last minute to be about a woman in order for it to sell a zillion records.”
“And here I thought your music knowledge failed to expand past your inner emo girl shit.”
Tossing him a teasing glare naturally occurs. “Is that how you fucked up? You let your ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’ side come out too soon on the first date?”
“Hey,” he warmly chuckles, “I am as the good Lord made me.”
“Fiddle obsessed and sexy in a pair of Levi’s?”
Slater momentarily balks at my open flirting while I silently thank my “Sk8er Boi” stars for my vibrating device giving me a reason to look elsewhere.
Wow.
I might’ve hit my head harder than I thought.
I know nothing showed up as unusual, but something is clearly malfunctioning in there.
How else can I explain the shit I just said out loud?
One simple swipe across the screen reveals to me another surprise, although unlike my comment, this one I probably could’ve seen coming had I given the situation a little more thought.
Harv: I hope you know I’m thinking about you Arley.
And he’s probably the one I should be thinking about.
Not the man standing across from me in his good date jeans.
Not the man who had me eat a cheeseburger while we took his truck through the carwash to ensure we weren’t being tailed.
Not the man who literally carried me from his parking space to the elevator when my cheap giftshop flip-flop broke all because he didn’t want me to risk burning my feet on the hot concrete.
That is the man I definitely shouldn’t be hoping stops looking at me like I’m a fragile trinket he’s afraid will get damaged through customs and starts looking at me like he wants to rip off my packaging.
Briefly shutting my eyes to collect my composure is mindlessly done.
How am I this horny?!
Why am I this wound up?!
Was Morris right?
Does a brush with death have an undeniable way of forcing you to go after what you really want in life?
Another set of buzzes pulls my eyelids back up to see the screen.
Harv: I hope you know how glad I am you’re okay.
Harv: Text me whenever you want. I’m here for you.
“That work?” Slater promptly interrogates, pulling my gaze back to his.
“Not exactly.” He lifts both eyebrows in a wordless request for more information, which unintentionally makes me defensive. “Do you need to know who’s texting me? Is that…protocol?”