Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115737 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
‘Because you make me nervous.’ I come right out and say it, and regret it just as fast. ‘I mean . . .’ My words die on my lips. There’s no going back from that. ‘Please, Jack,’ I beg him. ‘Can we just stick to business?’
He slowly peels his hold away and rests his hands on the table. ‘Right. Business,’ he confirms, looking over the drawing. ‘How much have they miscalculated by?’
I silently thank him for being professional, even though he’s chosen to ignore my request to cover his gorgeous chest. The smell of him is potent this close, his body nearly touching mine. ‘Two hundred kilos.’
He whistles, confirming the shit I’m in. ‘I’m no structural engineer, but even I know that puts us right up shit street.’
I sag next to him. ‘I know.’
‘This is seriously going to hinder the progress of the project.’
‘I know.’ I sag some more.
‘And we have a four-month deadline before Colin’s launch. It’s already tight.’
My hands hit the table and my head drops. ‘Are you going to say anything that will make me feel better? I was hoping for a miracle.’
He laughs, light and lovely. ‘I’m a contractor, not a miracle worker, Annie.’
I pout to myself, feeling more and more despondent by the second. I could cry. My blow-your-mind project is just an average project without that roof.
‘You look gorgeous when you pout,’ Jack says softly.
My lips quickly unpout themselves and purse instead. ‘You look gorgeous all the time.’ I look around me, startled. Who said that?
Jack laughs, and the sound seems to dilute my problem. For a second, everything fades and all that matters is listening to his laugh. ‘Keep it business, please,’ he teases.
‘You started it.’ I shake my head at myself in dismay, thinking I need to fix my brain-to-mouth filter pronto. I feel him gazing at my profile, and I peek out of the corner of my eye at him, assessing him, taking him in. ‘Why are you really here this late at night?’ I ask, stalling on fixing that filter. I don’t believe for a moment that he likes getting his hands dirty once in a while. There’s something more to it, and though I damn myself for it, I can’t help wondering more and more about Jack and his wife.
‘I needed to get out of the house.’ His answer is very dismissive, and for once he doesn’t look me in the eye, choosing to look down at the drawings instead.
His evasiveness just ramps up my curiosity. ‘To get some fresh air?’ I ask.
‘Something like that.’
I stare at his profile, my hand taking on a mind of its own and reaching up to his neck, where the scratches seem to glow at me. Jack catches my hand before it lands on his skin, prompting my gaze to jump to his. His grey eyes have regained a little bit of sparkle as he holds my stare and my hand, gently working his fingers around mine.
I find my eyes taking in our tangle of fingers, the sight morphing into the tangle of our sweaty bodies rolling around in a hotel bed, our mouths kissing wildly, our moans drenching the air. I lose myself in those thoughts, my mind tunnelling, my body feeling it all over again.
‘You’re in the hotel again, aren’t you?’ Jack whispers, hunkering down to meet my gaze. ‘Reliving that night like I am every single fucking minute of my life.’
I can’t talk. Can’t move. The rush of feelings has paralysed me, leaving me at the mercy of the man who’s consumed my mind, body and soul since he found me in that bar.
‘I can see it all in your eyes, Annie.’ He moves forward, and the heat from his breath hitting my face spreads through my body like wildfire. He enraptures me, knocks all sense out of me. His wife. What am I doing?
I swiftly pull my hand away, turning back towards the table and holding the edge for support. I stare down at the drawings, my head whirling. ‘You promised me.’
‘Jesus, Annie, how the hell are you doing this? You make it look easy.’
‘Because it is,’ I spit at the table. ‘Because there is nothing there for me, so stop trying to find anything. You’re wasting your time.’ I wince at my own scathing words, but I have to remain strong. Easy? He thinks this is easy? The notion makes me mad.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, hurt tingeing his apology.
His sincerity plays havoc with my willpower. It’s already painfully difficult to face him on a professional level. It’s painful, but it’s doable. I already feel consumed by guilt, ashamed of myself. This is impossible. The undercurrent of our connection is still there no matter how hard I fight to disregard it. But it doesn’t mean I can act on it.