Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
“I assure you, TJ, our fantasies are not that different,” he says, low, sensual, and way too dangerous. “And I have loads of fantasies. But I’m speaking specifically of household fantasies. Don’t you have household fantasies?”
Sure, but my household fantasies are more along the lines of fucking him while he’s bent over the counter. Blowing him at the kitchen table, jerking him off behind the shower curtain. “No. I don’t,” I lie.
He lets go of my arm. “Well, I do. And mine include a nice bathroom for getting ready in the morning.”
This must be an actor thing. I’m going to have to go along with it, and hopefully, it’ll dull the shine of Jude Graham.
He waxes on about cheery colors and patterns as he sifts through the selection of shower curtains, picking up a purple one, a plaid one, a green flower one, dismissing each with a careless flick of the finger. “We want something with a little perk.”
“Perky shower curtains,” I repeat, processing this term. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“How about something bright and yellow?” Jude suggests.
I wave a hand dismissively at the selection on the shelves. “Sounds fine. Just pick.”
He laughs deeply, very oh, silly boy. “You didn’t think I was going to let you pick, did you, TJ? If you picked, it’d be something you ordered from Zazzle and with a guy in a bathrobe on it.”
“The dude?” I point to my shirt, the one with the illustration of Jeff Bridges’s iconic character from one of the greatest cult classics ever.
“Yes. Or Tetris,” Jude adds.
Fine, if he’s going to poke at me like that, I can poke back. “You didn’t have a problem with my Tetris shirt last night,” I point out.
Jude slides just an inch closer, lowers his voice. “Actually, I did.”
I put my hands on my hips. “What was the problem?”
His eyes sparkle as he tugs at the fabric of my shirt again. “My problem . . .” He takes a deliberate pause as he holds the material in those fingers. My blood heats as I imagine those fingers tearing that shirt off me, then traveling down my chest. “Was that it was on.”
I laugh—I wasn’t expecting that. Jude laughs too, then turns away from me, which is for the best. If he keeps looking at me like that, with flirt in his eyes, I just might grab his face and kiss the fuck out of him in the shower curtain aisle at TK Maxx.
I move to new topics. “I’m getting the sense you’re saying I have no style?”
Jude swivels around and adopts a too-sweet expression. “Let’s just say, the way I feel about your style”—he waves a hand dismissively at my T-shirt then at the shelves of curtains—“is on par with how you feel about my love of Led Zeppelin.”
Yes! Another thing we don’t have in common. Shower curtains, clothing style, and musical taste will work in combination to turn me off. “Fine, go ahead and play Zeppelin tonight. It’s cool,” I say with a shrug.
He snort-laughs. “Oh, please. You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying,” I lie.
Jude stares at me with a smile that says he’s caught me red-handed. “You only want me to play Zeppelin so you don’t think about me naked.”
Jesus.
He’s electric. He’s unstoppable.
“Feel free to add in Jethro Tull, then too,” I say. I’ve got to try to keep up with him.
“Wait. I figured you out. You hate all the English rock bands that had their heyday in the seventies?”
“Yup. But not just English bands. American ones too. Case in point: The Allman Brothers Band.” I cringe for effect. “Queen aside, the seventies were a musical wasteland worldwide.”
“But what about ABBA?” He sounds like hating the Swedish pop group is blasphemy.
“Especially ABBA. So yeah, feel free to love on them all you want,” I challenge.
With curious eyes, Jude seems to size me up. “Because . . .” He wags a finger. “Because that would help our necessary friendship? If I love the bands you hate?”
“Yes, exactly.” Though, so far, that doesn’t appear to be true whatsoever.
He stares at me like a cat, taking his sweet time. “No. I don’t think I will play them.”
“Why not?” I ask like I don’t care, but I really want to hate him. I swear I do.
“Because I think you’d rather I play some alt-rock. Some cool new bands. Something I find in the clubs. I bet that’s your scene, right?”
I am cellophane with him. I need to find a trench coat to cover my see-through self. “No,” I say with an offhand shrug.
“You’re a terrible liar, TJ,” he says again, amused this time.
“I’m not,” I insist.
“You are. Want to know how I know?”
“Sure,” I grumble.
Jude points at my face. “Your eyes lit up when I said, cool new bands. That’s what you like, right? And you think if I play something you don’t like, it’ll make you stop thinking of all the presuming we’re not doing.”