Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Six-nine-six-nine,” he says.
I groan. “Are you twelve?”
“Do you have something against sixty-nines?”
“Nope. I have something for them,” I say, taking the ante and raising it.
River narrows his brow. “Well played.”
As he presses the brakes, I confirm the existence of a dog pic. He’s going to lose his mind for this shot.
“This is worth it,” I say.
“Excellent. Because I brake for dog pics.”
“Things I just learned about you,” I say.
“And there’s so much more to uncover.”
I’d like to uncover it all.
River pulls to the shoulder, puts the car in park, and admires the pic, shaking his head in delight. “Shut the front door. She’s the cutest dog ever,” he says, then beckons me to check out an image I’ve already seen. “You cannot tell me you’ve ever seen a cuter dog.”
He’s right. I can’t. “She’s literally the definition of adorable,” I say, as I lean in closer to him to stare at the shot. Delilah is lounging on the couch on her back, all four legs straight up in the air, but her face is tilted to the side. She’s watching Clueless on the TV.
“She has such good taste in flicks,” he says, admiring his creature as he moves just inches away from me.
Our heads are almost touching. We’re entering the smushie-selfie range. Like this, I catch a faint whiff of his shampoo, and the hint of a forest and rainfall making my mouth water. I draw a surreptitious inhale, letting it waft through my nostrils and go straight to my head.
My breath shudders.
My eyes float closed as the scent fries my brain. Scrambles all my thoughts.
“This is the best, and I’m so glad we stopped,” River declares.
Me too, though it has nothing to do with the dog and everything to do with how fucking good you smell. So good, I want to put my mouth on your throat, sweep my lips over your skin, drag my nose along your neck.
I want to do it again and again till you plead for more. Kiss you so thoroughly that you’re begging for me to make you feel good everywhere.
Because I will, and I know I can, and I want to show you. I want to do all sorts of dirty and sweet things to you.
I don’t move. I don’t trust myself not to murmur, Let me kiss you now, please.
I stay frozen in time, imagining hot and then hotter and then incendiary kisses with my best friend, until River sighs happily and moves away from me.
My eyes snap open, and I breathe out hard, reconnecting to reality here in his car on the side of the road, other vehicles whipping by as the sky swells with clouds.
River doesn’t seem to notice the harsh breath I take since he’s craning his neck around and checking traffic, then easing the car back into the right-hand lane.
I wish he had noticed. I half wish he’d said something. I almost wish he’d confront me. Force me to admit out loud the depth of my desire for him.
I set his phone back in the holder, the moment nearly broken.
But not quite.
As he speeds up the car, my racing thoughts get the better of me. “You don’t smell like gardenias,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than usual.
Can River tell?
“Ha, because that’s not my body wash,” he says with a laugh, but there’s a note of nerves in it. Or possibly, surprise.
I take another chance, push a little further. “It’s forest rain,” I say, and inside I’m burning from the heat of my own truth. “That’s what you smell like.”
River doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his lips together, then in a quiet voice, he asks, “I . . . do?”
“Yes,” I say roughly.
River shoves his left hand through his hair, then returns his palm to the wheel. “It’s my . . . um . . . shampoo. The one I started using when Nisha gave it away. It’s called something . . . I can’t remember.” River never stumbles on words. He’s a mile a minute all the time. He’s fearless, forging ahead always, conquering everything he does.
But not this second.
I steal the quickest glance in the history of stolen glances.
His cheeks are the slightest bit red. So is his neck. If I were a betting man, I’d bet he was aroused.
Just like me.
Except, I don’t know if I’ve gone too far. Or if he likes where I’m going.
All I know is he’s still quiet. Lips pressed together. Eyes lasered in on the road. Hands curled tight around the steering wheel.
His jaw ticks. Finally, he speaks. “Is your headache better?”
“A little,” I say. “My friend ibuprofen is starting to work his magic.”
“Good.” That one word comes out clipped.
And fuck me.
Maybe I should have stuck to the friendship script.
I rewind to the way we were. The dog pic. The movie. The banter. All the things we do.