Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 59954 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59954 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
To my surprise, there was someone already sitting there. I hesitated, preferring to be alone with my misery, but a niggling feeling kept my feet moving. My heart started pounding, beating faster the closer I got. When I was only a few feet away, the person lifted her head and warm, whiskey-colored eyes locked with mine. My breath stuck in my throat as I stood there like a deer caught in headlights.
It was the first time Imogene and I had ever come face to face. She was even more beautiful up close, and I continued to struggle to breathe. My body had gone on high alert, spreading goosebumps over my skin, and my dick sprung to attention.
My eyes finally broke from hers to take in the rest of Imogene. She was sitting cross-legged on the bench, a sketchbook in her lap and a pencil in her hand. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt that came to her knees and dipped off one shoulder. Despite the shapelessness, it didn’t disguise her long, lithe body, particularly with her legs in legging type pants that hugged her like a second skin. They must have been a light brown or peach color because in the dark, with only the moon and street lamps illuminating the area, her legs looked bare.
I frowned and glared at the leggings. Any red-blooded man would take one look at those and picture them wrapped around his waist. Yeah. That shit wasn’t going to fly with me. Those were going right in the trash once I got her home. Their days were numbered.
“Pardon?” Her voice was low and husky, washing over me, leaving my nerve endings tingling. When I lifted my eyes to her face, she was watching me expectantly. It took me a beat, but then I realized I must have said that last thought out loud.
“Nothing, beautiful,” I told her with a small shake of my head.
She cocked her head to the side, and her shoulder-length, light brown curls bounced. “Um, okay.” Her face was scrubbed free of makeup, and pink lips were flanked by dimples that I itched to explore with my tongue. She looked so young and innocent. I’d even wondered that maybe I was dooming myself to my brother’s shoes. Not that it would have altered my course of action. Just delayed things a bit. But once I had her name, I quickly discovered that she was nineteen; to my cock’s utter relief. The last two months had been sheer hell. I had no idea how my brother had held out for two years. Maybe it should have given me pause that I was fifteen years older than her, but I didn’t give a fuck. She was mine.
There wasn’t much more information on her. No address or phone number. She had no social media presence, and the only mention I found of her name was the obituary of an Imogene Delaney from Queens who’d died a few months ago. I’d hired a private investigator, but since there wasn’t anything he could tell me that would change my mind about Imogene, I let him go after he gave me the basics about her.
I took a step closer, and she shut her sketch pad, holding it close to her chest. “May I sit?” I asked softly. I didn’t want to spook her and send her running—not now that I finally had her attention.
She nodded, and I lowered my big frame onto the small bench. I took up most of the space, so she scooted over to make a little more room for me.
“My name is Thatcher.” I smiled warmly, and she hesitantly returned the gesture. She looked nervous, but there was no fear in her eyes. Was she as comfortable with me as I was with her? Did she feel what was between us? She had to. There was no fucking way this was one-sided.
“Imogene,” she responded. I kept the fact that I already knew her name to myself.
“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” Even in the dim lighting, I was able to see the sprinkling of pink on her cheeks as she blushed.
I forced myself to tear my eyes away from her for a few minutes. My feelings for her were so intense that I wanted to ease her in, make her fall for me before she discovered the true depths of my obsession with her. That’s when I noticed the portfolio propped on the seat next to her. I gestured to it and asked, “Will you show me some of your work? I’ve seen your displays, but I’ve never studied them up close. From what I can tell, you’re incredibly talented.”
Imogene’s expression turned shy even as she beamed at me, lighting up the night more than the moon or stars ever could. She set her notebook on the bench between us and twisted to pick up her big, black folder.