Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Been there, done that. I won’t allow myself to be that girl again. But I’m also realizing that I don’t want to be at odds with Shane anymore.
“I’d be willing to try to make friends work,” I offer. “But just know that I don’t trust you. I probably never will.”
“Never? Seriously?” He winces. “But it was so long ago.”
“It doesn’t matter how long ago it was.” I hesitate. “You hurt me.” It’s terrifying to declare that to him, as if I’m making myself vulnerable.
He licks his lips. “There’s not much I can say except that I’m sorry. If I could go back in time, I’d do a lot of things differently.” He adds that last part quietly, more to himself.
It’s comforting to hear him apologize—again—but he’s right. We can’t change the past. “Let’s just keep things as they are, okay? Simple.” And brimming with sexual tension.
His piercing eyes are locked on mine. “If that’s what you want.”
What I want at this moment is to trail him into his shower and help scrub every inch of sweat and grime off his tanned, hard body. With my tongue. “We’re neighbors. And you have a kid with Penelope.” I can’t hide the appalling tone from my voice when I say her name. “And I’m Cody’s teacher.” Is there something in the rule book about screwing your student’s father?
“So, let’s not complicate things. I get it.” He sighs with reluctance, the sound boosting my confidence. “I guess I can do just friends.”
Let’s hope I can.
I take in his features, focusing on the scruff along his jawline. I’m not sure if I prefer him this way, or clean-shaven. “You’re not keeping this thing, are you?” Impulse possesses me, and I reach up to drag tentative fingertips through the bristle, testing its prickliness. What would it feel like to have that scraping along the insides of my thighs?
Shane leans into my touch, his lips parting.
I pull my hand back as if I’ve stroked an open flame. Touching Shane is just as dangerous.
“What are you thinking about?” Goddammit, his voice has turned husky.
I’m thinking that remembering why I shouldn’t get tangled up with Shane Beckett again is getting harder with each passing moment. “That you really should grab that shower.” I sniff and curl my nose for effect, though he doesn’t smell that bad for a guy who spent days sleeping in a campground.
A low, deep chuckle reverberates in his chest. With a heavy sigh, he climbs to his feet. “Do I need to draw my curtains tonight or can you control yourself?”
“Depends what you’re doing in there.” I’m flirting again. While I should be appalled by myself, instead a thrill courses through me.
He flashes a mischievous grin—and those dimples—as he backs away. “I’ll be thinking about a certain elementary school teacher. Should be a good one-man show.”
Oh my god. He actually went there. “Friends don’t masturbate about friends!” I holler after him, his sordid promise warming my thighs.
A gasp sounds. I turn to catch the dirty look from a couple as they walk past, their beagle pausing long enough to lift his leg against my freshly painted fence. Son of a …
I duck my head and focus intently on the last of the Shasta daisies until the people have rounded the corner, all while the reality that I’ve just smashed open Pandora’s box with a sledgehammer looms.
This is Shane Beckett I’m dealing with, I remind myself. My first love, my first heartbreak. Still the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Rationally, I can’t stop myself from being attracted to him.
What I can—must—stop myself from doing is acting on it.
Fourteen
I don’t know who else Penelope was screwing at the time, but Cody Rhodes is, without a doubt, Shane’s son. I couldn’t see it in the tiny class picture but he has the same shade of hair and beautiful, whiskey-colored eyes as his father.
Unfortunately for Cody, the rest of his features firmly resemble his mother. It’s like having a young male version of Penelope Rhodes staring back at me in my classroom, his T-shirt two sizes too big for his skinny frame. For his sake, I pray the boy inherits his father’s physique when he hits his growth spurt.
I peel my gaze away from him and calmly take in the entire group of eleven-year-olds settling into their seats—nine boys, sixteen girls—twenty-five kids who look like they’d rather be anywhere in the world but here. They know that’s not an option, though, so they’ve at least made a solid effort. Most of them are wearing squeaky new shoes and prudently selected first-day-of-school outfits. Of course, there are the few whose families can’t afford new things. Their shoulders are slouched as they silently evaluate their classmates, hoping no one will notice that their generic sneakers are the same ones they wore last spring, only with fresh laces. I recognize those kids. I was one of them, once.