Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
It would be much harder to hide the hint of an erection I’m sporting in a pair of sweatpants.
I turn back to the stove and give the rice a final stir before removing it from the burner, determined to get myself under control. “Dinner should be ready in about fifteen minutes. Just waiting for the cauliflower and sweet potatoes to finish roasting. I’ll sauté the spinach while they’re cooling. I’m making vegetarian rice bowls with a lemon balsamic dressing and a cheese and apple plate for dessert.”
“Sounds and smells delicious,” she says, appearing beside me and reaching for the fridge handle. “Looks like all we need is a glass of wine. Chardonnay okay for you? I have a bottle open from last night.”
“Chardonnay is great,” I say, even though I know wine isn’t a good idea.
But I’ll only have one glass. Just enough to make me sleepy, not enough to make cradling Sydney’s face in my hands again seem okay.
She closes the fridge and fetches two wineglasses from the cupboard beside the stove, her body so close to mine, I can smell the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo, feel the warmth of her skin. If she were mine, I would pin her against the cabinet, kiss her until she forgets all about pouring the wine, and slip my hand down the front of her sweatpants. I’d give her a proper thank you for picking me up in the middle of a storm and show her how glad I am I was there to keep her safe.
I want to keep this woman safe. From everything.
Even before she told me about losing her mother when she was barely a teen, I could sense sadness beneath her contagious smile, a wound that hasn’t completely healed. If Sydney were mine, I’d like to think I could help her with that. That I could care for her enough to make up for the mother who didn’t live to love her.
But I can’t do any of those things.
And the fact that I’m longing to care for this woman as much as I want to touch her isn’t rational. Or sane.
I’m making a mental note to call my therapist for an emergency session when I get back to Vermont when Sydney asks, “So is there a Mrs. Gideon? Or a girlfriend back home?”
I shift her way, my heart lurching when I realize how close she is. Close enough to feel her breath on my neck, to see the hunger in her eyes.
A hunger that has nothing to do with grain bowls or a cheese plate…
A part of me is savagely excited that she wants to know if I’m available. The other part of me warns that this is still a bad idea.
But that second voice is a whisper now.
Maybe by the end of dinner, it will be quiet enough to ignore completely…
four
SYDNEY
What is wrong with you?
How are you this awkward?
Pre-teen girls have more game than you do, Perry-Watson.
The inner voice is right, but I don’t care.
I have to know if Gideon is with someone. If he is, it will help me get control of the crazy fantasies that have been tumbling around in my head since we met. (The ones that took an especially vivid turn in the shower…)
And if he’s a free man…
Well, then maybe it’s okay to trust the hunger in his eyes and the hunger in my bones and the sudden certainty that I’m done waiting for Mr. Right. I’m finally ready for Mr. Right Now. I’ve never had such an instant, powerful attraction to a man, and the more I think about it, the more certain I am that Gideon would be the perfect choice for my first time.
He’s older, wiser, and way more experienced than any of the boys I’ve fumbled around with in the dark. He’s gorgeous and strong, sexy and kind, and he’s already proven he’d risk his life to keep me safe.
If I can’t trust a man like that to be my partner in a major life event, who can I trust?
And even if things go horribly awry, he’s leaving in a day or two. Moira said he was based out of Burlington, Vermont. I’ve never been to Burlington, and if needed, I can avoid going there for the rest of my life, ensuring our paths never cross again.
He’s perfect.
So perfect, I hold my breath as he studies my face.
After a long beat, he says, “No, there’s no Mrs. Gideon. Or girlfriend. What about you?”
I shake my head, willing my face to give no sign of the giddy celebration taking place in my cerebral cortex. I have to play it cool. This man is a man, not an inexperienced boy who will be swept off his feet by a sloppy display of puppy love. “No. Not a lot of dating prospects in the marsh with the butterflies and seabirds.”