Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 234(@200wpm)___ 187(@250wpm)___ 156(@300wpm)
My dream is to help people realize their dreams of improving their work or helping them improve it.
Now, I respond to two customers at the same time, following the company script. My laptop is split into thirds.
Two windows show the chats.
The third shows the image of Killian Blaze.
For his website, he’s leaned into the Blaze. Flames lick all around him.
He stands with his arms folded, sleeves of tattoos disappearing into his black T-shirt. His arms are thick and stretch the sleeves of the shirt, his chest bulging, so powerful and huge it makes my body tingle all over.
The flames of the website glow against his silver hair, seeming to make it sparkle, his ice-blue eyes staring like an unflinching winter.
Something is captivating about the smirk on his lips like he’s telling me….
Don’t worry, Mia. I’m here for you. You don’t have to go through anything alone ever again.
There are other photos of him online from his boxing career with his hulking shirtless body soaked in sweat.
But I prefer him here, with his silver hair, experience, and maturity dripping down every inch of him.
His website appeared when I started searching for a possible tattoo artist in my area.
This was yesterday.
The day my life changed.
I clicked… and everything hurt for a searing second as if my body and soul were taking a new shape. I’ve never been interested in boys, maybe because of the hell Dad put Mom and me through.
But Killian isn’t a boy.
He’s all man.
In childish dreams – dreams I should be far above at this stage in my life – I think about him being my man.
Yeah, me.
A woman who can barely leave the house, whose heart hammers like fists against cage bars every time I’m forced to talk to somebody in person or even over the phone. The confused woman who hated her Dad on one level and loved him on another.
My cell phone buzzes, the cracked screen causing sweat to slide down my body when I see the name.
Killian.
I’ve already saved his number, knowing it’s the closest I’ll ever get to owning a piece of him.
The chill in the room seems less severe as I pick up the phone like Blaze is heating me up.
I’d be happy to help, he replies. Would you like to arrange an appointment?
My heart does its familiar hammering routine at the thought of seeing him in person, with him looming over me, six foot four of pure experienced muscle. His height is listed everywhere online since it was relevant to his boxing career.
I wonder what it would be like to be pressed against his hard body to feel safe and protected.
What sort of details would you need? I type. We can arrange some things beforehand so we don’t waste time during the appointment.
My belly cramps even as I type the words. Since this routine is so familiar to me, I find excuses to avoid the things other people seem to take for granted.
Seeing people in person, talking with them, existing in the world.
It’s not just because I was homeschooled.
In the early days of my homeschooling, I knew other kids. We had a community.
But then Dad got worse. The socializing stopped.
It’s just Mom and me now.
You’re not going to waste my time, he replies.
A tight smile spreads across my face as I read his words.
How could you possibly know that?
I send the text quickly, wondering if this is what flirting feels like. There’s no reason for him to flirt with me, especially since he doesn’t know what I look like.
Unless he’s searched for me online, I saw the photo I took a couple of weeks ago when the freelancing website emailed me. They were going to disable my profile if I didn’t upload a picture.
Hastily, I took one, balancing my phone on the nightstand and setting a timer.
But I’m wrong. If Killian has searched for me online, that’s more reason for him not to want to flirt.
Look at him. Look at me.
He probably has countless women throwing themselves at him.
I get people trying to waste my time, he texts. But you don’t seem like that type. You seem sincere.
My smile widens, but then it tremors and falls. This isn’t making sense.
I still don’t know how you could come to that opinion.
It’s simple, he replies quickly. The formality of your first text. For whatever reason – perhaps because this tattoo is in honor of a loved one – sending that text was important to you. It matters. You’re not going to waste my time…, and I’m not going to waste yours.
I read his words over twice, trying to work out if I’m wrong to feel this personal note inside of me, this quiver of longing.
It’s like he knows me, wants to know me, or is interested beyond the tattoo.
I’ve got to be careful. I don’t have any experience when it comes to men.