Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
“Dammit,” she mutters.
“Have you had dinner?” I ask, ignoring the twinge of disappointment that she can’t read my mind.
“Do cookies count?”
“No. Cookies don’t count. I made spaghetti last night. There are leftovers. I think I even have a box of garlic bread in the freezer.”
“You don’t have to feed me too.”
I reach over and grab her hand, placing it on my thigh, before putting mine back on the wheel. “I want to feed you, Palmer. Just let me, okay?”
“Okay,” she agrees softly. She’s quiet for a few minutes, and the rain continues to fall angrily from the sky. “It’s really coming down.” Her hand grips my thigh as if she’s scared, and I hate that I really need to keep both hands on the wheel and can’t cover hers with mine to comfort her.
“It is, but I’ve got this.”
“I trust you.”
Three words that I never really cared to hear from a woman before. There’s never been a woman in my life who has been around long enough for me to care if she thought that she could trust me. For some reason, with Palmer, it’s important. I like knowing that I have her trust, and I find that she has mine, which is not something I give women. At least not until her.
Finally, I turn into my driveway and hit the garage door opener. It opens with ease, and I pull my truck inside and hit the button to shut the door, closing the noise of the rain outside with it.
“We made it.” I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.
“Safe and sound.” She smiles, her shoulders relaxing.
“Let’s get you fed,” I tell her. We both climb out of the truck and make our way into the house, kicking our shoes off in the laundry room.
“You warm up dinner while I start cleaning,” Palmer says, letting her bag drop off her shoulder and land on the laundry room floor.
“Palmer, you’re not cleaning my house.”
“Then take me home.”
“No.” I stand with my feet apart and cross my arms over my chest. “I just got you here. I barely got to see you Wednesday night, and it was a long damn time before that. I’m not taking you home.”
Her shoulders drop as she steps toward me. My arms fall to my sides, and she places her hands flat against my chest, staring up at me. “I want to do this for you, Brooks. I don’t want to go home yet. I want to be here, but I also want to make your life easier.”
“You make it better.” The confession slips past my tongue before I can stop it, but I don’t regret it.
“Please? The two of us together can knock it out in no time. You’re clean for a bachelor,” she teases.
“That’s not why I invited you here.”
She leaves one hand on my chest and moves the other to rest against my cheek. “I know that. That’s why I want to help you. Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn’t jump in to help me if the roles were reversed?”
“Of course I would.”
She stands on her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss under my chin. “Then let me. Please?”
Let me tell you something about Palmer Setty and those big green eyes of hers. When she’s standing so close, her hands on your body, and she turns the power of those beautiful eyes on you and follows with a please, you can’t say no.
I can’t say no.
“Fine,” I concede.
“Thank you.” I’m rewarded with a kiss on my lips. I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her close, kissing her the way I’ve been dying to since the moment she hopped into my truck.
“Brooks,” she mumbles against my lips.
“Hmm.” I don’t stop kissing her.
“If we start this now, we’re never going to start cleaning, and I really do need a shower before this goes any further.” She pulls back and wrinkles her nose.
“I’ll take you any way that I can get you.” I’m telling her the truth. She thinks she’s a mess. I think she’s beautiful.
“Go cook us some dinner, or warm us up some dinner or whatever. Give me the dusting supplies and the vacuum.”
“I hate this.”
“Get over it, big guy.” She pats my chest and takes a step back.
“Cleaning supplies and the vacuum are in the hall closet.”
“Got it,” she calls over her shoulder, already heading toward the closet. I hear her rustling around, and then music fills the house. I have an open-floor plan, so I can see her as she props her phone up on the TV stand and gets to work dusting my living room and dining room area. I don’t have a lot as far as decorations, so it’s not like it’s a time-consuming job, but I still hate that she’s doing it. I wanted to spend time with her, not guilt her into cleaning my house.