Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
It physically hurt to laugh at one of her jokes, because it had been so long, but he did, the gruff boom bouncing off the stone facade of the building. “Oh, you should. This place is known for having the best beefcake in town.”
She sniffed. “I don’t like meat, remember?”
“You loved it last night.”
Twin spots of color appeared on her cheeks, her attention—if he wasn’t mistaken—dropping to his crotch, before zipping back upward. “If this is an indication of how the day is going to go, I think it’s best if I skip.”
Tallulah took a step backward, retreating into her room, and the invisible hand of panic wrapped around his jugular, causing him to lunge forward involuntarily, catching the door before she could close it. The move brought them inches apart and for a moment, all he could do was marvel over her skin in the light of the sunrise, the luscious shape of her mouth and the rich brown of her eyes. God, I fucking miss you, Tallulah.
He opened his mouth to apologize for starting off on the wrong foot. In his defense, there were yellow bikini strings sticking out of her denim waistband and they’d pureed his brain. But before he could speak a word, his focus was drawn to the unmade bed—and that’s when he saw the royal blue balled-up sweatshirt. His Bearcats sweatshirt.
She’d brought it to Costa Rica to use as a pillow?
Had she . . . been using it the whole time they’d been apart?
Burgess swallowed thickly, unable to speak for a solid ten seconds, his throat working and working until it was sore. With relief. Arousal. Appreciation. Shock.
Tallulah followed his line of sight, the color deepening on her cheeks. “It’s the biggest sweatshirt I own. Obviously, it makes the, um . . . most ideal pillow.”
With his dark mood evaporated, Burgess decided to let Tallulah get away with that bullshit. The sweatshirt meant something. It had to. And so he found a deep down reserve of patience and drew on it with everything he had. “How would you like the day to go, instead, Tallulah?” He struggled against the urge to tuck a piece of stray hair behind her ear, his fingers twitching near the outside of his thigh. “Tell me—and I’ll make it happen.”
Her shoulder rose and fell on a breath, and he could sense her relief that he hadn’t pursued a conversation about his sweatshirt being spotted in her bed. Little did she know he’d be thinking about it nonstop all day. “I don’t need protection anymore,” she said finally. “I’m more . . . steady now. On my own.”
“I’ll say.” He tilted his head to study her. “A hot air balloon ride and everything.”
Tallulah blinked, lips parting. “You know about that?”
Burgess nodded once. “Just because you haven’t seen me doesn’t mean I haven’t been checking in. Constantly. At this point, I’ve offered to buy Chloe nine new harps and the entire skincare section at Sephora.”
She sniffed, rolled a shoulder. “I suppose you think what you said to me, in the hospital . . . I suppose you think that’s what gave me that final push to start trying new things without a bodyguard. Maybe it was. Or maybe I was just ready, but . . .” She stopped for a breath. “Calling my family for the first time in years? Hearing their voices? That was all me.”
A bolt turned in his jugular. “You called them.”
“Yes.” Tallulah snuck a look up at him, just a small one, but it was such a powerful glance, because she let him see, albeit briefly, how much that phone call had meant to her. She generously let him share in the relief, and God, he’d never experienced more thankfulness in his life. She’d opened up to him about her family, the postcards, and he’d thrown it in her face. Yet with one flick of her eyes, she’d let him know their past moments together still stood. They hadn’t been erased by his callousness. Not completely.
That didn’t mean the present wasn’t still a giant fucking question mark.
“You’re so fucking brave, Tallulah.” His chest was being sucked inward toward his spine. Gratitude rained down on him, just to be given the chance to say these things to her out loud and have her listen, whether he deserved to be heard or not. “I was dead wrong to imply the postcards meant you aren’t brave or capable. I was the one being a coward that day.”
Without realizing it, Burgess had moved closer, positioning them both in the doorframe, her back pressed to one side, his to the other. He propped a forearm over her head and leaned down, taking a serious chance by rolling their foreheads together, letting her feel the release of breath from his lungs against her lips and hope, hope like hell she knew every ounce of it was for her.