Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96178 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
But even the lingering memory of her mother’s stony face wasn’t enough to ruin Ren’s mood once she swept the curtains open and let in the bright Montana sunshine. She was lying to her parents, traveling across the country with a man she barely knew to see someone who may or may not be her father, she spent yesterday in a biker saloon, and her entire life could be a lie, but somehow Ren was still having more fun than she’d ever had before.
With Fitz.
Fitz, that confusing, guarded, funny, protective, hot softie asleep in the bed over there. Fitz, who’d been trying to get rid of her for the last two days but for a flash last night looked at her like she was something to be treasured. Fitz, who was quickly becoming her favorite part of this trip.
Speaking of the trip…Ren set her backpack by the door and walked over to his bed, lifting his heavy arm and using all her strength to roll him over.
He clung to his pillow. “No.”
“Yes! Adventure awaits!”
“The mountain isn’t going anywhere.”
“That’s right, but we are.” Ren tugged, harder. “Come on! Don’t we have a schedule to keep?”
Grumbling, he slid from the bed and then stood, stretching with a long, rough groan.
Ren’s gaze shot to the ceiling, where there was plaster and paint and texture and so very many things to examine that weren’t Fitz’s body. It was only once he was safely sealed in the bathroom with the shower running that Ren let herself think about the slice of torso she’d seen for only a second—how warm and hard it looked, about Fitz’s legs in his basketball shorts, so long and muscular and tan—and about how the photos in the bathroom at the Screaming Eagle didn’t look half as good as she imagined he would.
Not that she would ever see him naked.
Not that she wanted to see him naked.
Blowing out a breath, she sat down on her bed and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Maybe Gloria was right about a few things, because before Ren started breaking all these rules, she’d never spent much time at all contemplating naked men, and here she was, wondering if she’d ever stop thinking about them.
Or one specific man, at least.
They must have driven across the border into the twilight zone, because for once Fitz agreed to road games while they drove. They tried to find license plates from every single state and played Twenty Questions with items in the car. It was good that he’d become a willing companion because Ren honestly didn’t know how else they would have spent the hours on the road; even for someone who’d never been through this part of the country, the scenery wasn’t very stimulating. Hills to flat to hills to flat. By the time they reached their hotel in Rapid City, they were both ready to stretch their legs, and Ren was practically vibrating with excitement over the upcoming day trip.
Fitz’s relief was palpable when the man confirmed that the room had two beds, and Ren was glad to finally be able to pay for something. She covertly peeled a few twenties off her thick stack and slid them across to the man in exchange for two keys and a pamphlet.
Beside her, Fitz let out a small whimper, and Ren tracked his attention to where the glossy front page read WELCOME TO RAPID CITY, THE CITY OF PRESIDENTS! And just beneath it: Embark on our famous Scavenger Hunt to find all forty of the presidential bronze statues!
“Oh boy,” he mumbled, already laughing in defeat.
Ren shook the pamphlet in his wake as he turned to walk toward the elevators. “We have to do this.”
“No.”
“Fitz, you don’t understand. A scavenger hunt! For statues!”
He groaned, pushing the up button. “No, Sunshine.”
But even when he said it, he was fighting a smile. And no matter how hard he tried to smash it down, it lit his eyes up, sent those sweet lines crinkling the corners, and it was that struggle that set a tiny, vibrating firefly loose inside her chest. Fitz was having fun. With her.
“Do you know,” she said as they met at Max’s hood in the Mount Rushmore parking lot, “it took four hundred workers to finish this, and not a single one died?”
Fitz hummed, sliding on his sunglasses and peering up at the mountain, backlit by the overcast sky.
“And also,” she said, falling into step with him as he headed toward the entrance, “there’s a cave behind the sculptures called the Hall of Records, and it contains a vault with sixteen enamel panels with the Declaration of Independence carved into them?”
“You don’t say.”
“Also, the four presidents were chosen by the chief sculptor, and not the US government.” Another noncommittal hum. “And the original plan was to have the presidents shown from the waist up, but the project ran out of funding.”