Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
No, no, no.
“Hey! You can't just…” I clap my hands right in front of his face, but all he does is twitch.
His breathing is slow and steady, and his color better than it was. I leave him on the couch, because what else can I do? There’s no way I can drag him out of here as deadweight.
While keeping an eye on him from the kitchen, I make some PB&J sandwiches and fill a couple of water bottles to bring to Mia. She won’t be happy about the change in dinner plans, but calmly making dinner and sitting at the table while this man is passed out on my couch is out of the question. I’ll lock us in my room where there’s an attached bathroom and hope he’s gone by morning.
Wait. Maybe he's got a wallet or something that can help me identify him, or an emergency contact who can take him off my hands. I sneak up on him like he’s a sleeping tiger.
He shifted while I was in the kitchen, sprawling out on his back, with one arm flung over his face. Tall, dark and deadly, he’s exactly the sort of man I shouldn’t find attractive anymore, but damn. The woman in me can’t help but notice how his t-shirt is doing God’s work, stretched to the limit over his broad chest and showing off a man in his prime. My mouth goes dry as I take in every inch of him, from the tattoos winding up his neck, down to the narrow waist with a gun tucked into his pants on the one side.
A gun.
In my house.
Air hisses through my teeth in surprise as I do my best to not freak out. Holding my breath and watching for even a tiny twitch from him, I touch the grip. He doesn’t stir. I pull it free. The metal is warm from his body heat, and heavy in my hands. I push the release and pop the magazine out. Just because I don’t like guns doesn’t mean I don’t know how to handle them. Another thing my biker history has taught me.
First things first. Before I check for a phone or wallet, I stash the gun in the fire safe in my hall closet where neither curious little hands, nor big angry ones can get to it.
Even with the gun safely locked away, searching him feels risky. Do I dare? Yes, because not doing it feels even riskier.
There’s a lump in his right side pocket that could be a slim wallet or a phone. Slowly and carefully, like in a deadly game of Jenga, I ease my fingers in to get it. For once, I wish men’s jeans had those stupid half-pockets that women’s do, because whatever is down here seems like it’s halfway to his knee.
My fingertips touch what must be a cell phone, and in my excitement I move a little faster. Something long and hard presses against the side of my hand. Another gun?
No, wait…
Holy crap.
The biker makes a noise that very much doesn’t sound like pain, and I realize I’m practically palming a stranger’s, um, hot rod. His very long, firm hot rod that twitches under my hand.
What's wrong with me that I don’t immediately yank my hand back? This man is injured and probably a criminal. I’d bet money he didn’t just have a random accident while out riding. It doesn't matter how sexy he is or how… gifted he is. His being here could put Mia in danger. That's what I have to keep in mind. Not his…
Nope. Not going there again. I pinch the corner of his phone and wiggle it out of his pocket as carefully as possible, very pointedly not looking at the long lump that’s definitely not just a fold in the fabric.
All my worry about waking him up was for nothing. His breathing stays slow and steady, and from what I can tell, he’s still out cold. There’s a crack on his screen, but it’s still working from what I can tell. It’s locked, though, and he doesn’t have fingerprint or face id active. I check the medical id, but he doesn’t have it set up. Disappointed, I put it on the coffee table. No way I’m going to try to put it back into his pocket, so hopefully he won’t remember whether he pulled it out himself or not.
I brush my hand through the blood stiffened hair on his temple. Asleep, he doesn’t look nearly as frightening as he did when he was awake and hurting. “Don’t die on me out here, okay? And don’t make me regret letting you stay.”
His promise not to cause trouble had a ring of sincerity to it. Hopefully, all that happens is that he wakes up and gets the heck out of here, and then we can all get back to our lives and he'll be nothing but a weird memory. Someone to think about when I'm alone, dreaming about the what-could’ve-beens.