Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
And the fact that he can read me so easily makes me say, “What, no.”
His gaze roves over my upturned face and I try to school my features.
I try to appear calm.
Not only because I don’t want him to know that he got me but also because why would I be worried in the first place? Why do I care if he’s in pain or if he looks run over by a truck?
“Because it looks like you are,” he rasps.
And I let go of his wrists then. “I’m not.”
I also try to move back but I can’t.
Because of his stupid helmet and his fingers still clutching onto the straps.
His mouth, split and swollen as it is, stretches up in a small smirk. “Because if you were, I’d let you do it.”
“Let me do what?”
“Clean up my wounds.”
My breath escapes in a mad rush. “I have no interest in cleaning up your stupid wounds.”
He licks his split lips. “I’ll even let you bandage me up.”
I throw him a mock smile. “Yes, because that’s what I aspire to be. Being your nursemaid along with being your servant girl.”
He chuckles. “Nursemaid, yeah. I could use a good little nursemaid like you.”
I fist my hands at my sides. “Totally. Let me just knee you in your special place first and I’ll get right on that.”
But if I thought my sarcastic comments would bother him, then I was wrong.
Apparently nothing bothers him or stops him from scanning my face.
And the one thing he always notices about me: my dress.
This one had him cursing only moments ago but now he’s watching it as if for the first time. And I guess it is for the first time, because just like his beaten-up face, my dress was hidden by the darkness as well.
So now he takes it in, from the spaghetti straps and the square neckline to the ruffled hem that stops an inch above my knees.
When he’s done checking out my dress and making me feel all kinds of breathless, he goes, “A pretty little nursemaid not dressed in pink.”
It’s not as if what he said was wrong or untrue.
I am not dressed in pink.
But it still makes me squirm a little. His observation. For some reason.
But I lift my chin and say, “Yes, because blue is his favorite color.”
Which is why I wore blue at The Horny Bard too. And yes, wearing a dress when I’m going to a party where people might recognize me is dangerous, but I need to look my best tonight.
I need to impress my ex-boyfriend.
Hence my choice of dress, ribbon and even my sandals.
I’m head to toe, all blue.
Although, his best friend — ex-best friend — tells me, “Well then I hate to say it, but you missed a spot.”
I would’ve asked what he means by that but I don’t have to.
I get it.
When those flashing reddish-brown eyes of his settle on my mouth.
Which is pink.
Painted pink I mean, with lipstick.
I was never a fan of lipstick or any sort of makeup, but Poe has made me a convert. And I needed all the confidence tonight.
“It’s called lipstick, you asshole,” I tell him when he won’t stop staring at my lips, making them tingle, and he snaps his eyes up. “I’m trying to look my best, okay? Given the mission for tonight.”
With his eyes that have become all glow-y and intense staring into mine, he rumbles, “Given the mission for tonight, why don’t you worry more about your ex-boyfriend and less about what happened to my face? We’re working together now, not braiding each other’s hair or swapping period stories. Or whatever it is you like to do with your friends.”
“I —”
“And if you think about going all drama queen on my special place, make sure you’re not wearing your boyfriend’s favorite color. I don’t think he’d be very happy to see it ruined and dripping when I decide to teach you what happens to good little servant girls turned nursemaids when they don’t treat my God-given gift of junk with respect.” Then, “Ex-boyfriend.”
With that he buckles the strap and steps back, ready to take off into the night.
And I’m left thinking that this is hard.
Working together without wanting to kill him.
“He’s alone,” I say to the guy who brought me to the party.
“Yeah.”
“And he doesn’t look drunk.” I squint my eyes, trying to make him out. “I don’t think, at least.”
“He isn’t.” Then, “Yet.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“Paid someone to keep an eye on him.”
At this, I look away from my target, my ex-boyfriend, and look at him, his ex-best friend. “Really?”
His eyes are glued to Lucas and his bruised jaw is clamped shut.
Which he then unhinges to rasp, “Had to.”
Because these days, Lucas can’t stay away from liquor and self-destruction.
Right.
That’s why I’m here.
Taking a deep breath, I murmur, “I guess that’s my cue then.”