Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The fire is out rather quickly, but the damage is immense, smoke swirling all throughout the house. I have enough experience with restorations after fires to know just how fucking bad this is going to be. The smoke will settle into everything it touches—the walls, the furniture, and even the books and decor on either side of the mantel in the living room won't be spared.
"Mac," Riley whispers, her voice full of sadness and regret when I drop my head between my shoulders in disgust.
I'm a reasonable man. I know she didn't ask to be distracted, but that doesn't make all the anger at this situation ebb away.
I turn to face her, ready to yell and cuss and point fingers of blame, but she looks terrified. What is it about a woman crying that always brings me to my knees?
Before I can walk to her, the doorbell rings.
"Motherfucker," I mutter, having completely forgotten about the McGees coming.
"I called the fire department," she whispers, looking over her shoulder at the door.
I storm past her to get to the door, knowing the fire department hasn't had time to gear up and make it to this part of town yet.
I'm a little pissed at her. No, I'm a lot pissed at her. She had no fucking business showing up in that fucking dress that teased her knees, one with a neckline that just hinted at her perfect fucking tits. She did it to distract me. I just know it.
But those thoughts are insane. I know they are. She came to cook, not to get fucked. Although I'm the one who set that shit into motion, I just can't let go of the anger, knowing it has more to do with my inability to keep my fucking hands off her rather than anything that's within her control.
I pull the door open with more force than I probably should.
"Mr. and Mrs. McGee," I greet to a plume of smoke escaping the house around me.
Mrs. McGee covers her mouth and nose with a cough, whereas Mr. McGee attempts to look around me into the house.
I open my mouth to ask if we could reschedule, but before I can manage the words, the only fire truck that Lindell has comes blaring down my long driveway, red lights flashing and lighting up the night.
"Seems there's been a fire," I manage as I look back into the house.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other when Mr. McGee tries to look around me once again because Riley is standing there, looking sad and scared. Her hair is a mess, and the edge of her dress is haphazardly tucked into the waistband of her panties on one side from the urgency we left my room. She looks well and truly fucked.
"There won't be a meeting tonight," I say, giving Mr. McGee as much of my attention as I can manage.
I don't mention rescheduling because it will take me forever to get my house back in working order because canceling jobs I already have won't help. If anything, it'll set me back even more by reducing the funds to clean all this shit up.
I chance another glance over my shoulder, pointing a quick finger at Riley's tucked-up dress, hating that I notice the heat lighting up her cheeks when she looks down and realizes that she's standing there with her panties showing. Heat swims through my gut like I'm a fucking teen boy who can't control his hormones, despite what's going on around him.
My house is ruined. Now is not the time to let my mind wander to what happened mere moments ago upstairs. I hate that I can't just shove those feelings away and focus on the wreck my kitchen has been left in.
"Is that the Wilson girl in there?" Mr. McGee asks, making me wonder how much of her he saw.
I have no doubt I'll know in full detail by the time I make it to the diner in the morning to grab a breakfast burrito before work.
"Mac," Hayes Campbell says when he steps up on the front porch. "You have a fire?"
"Had," I mutter. "Have a good evening, Mr. and Mrs. McGee."
It takes a few more seconds before the elderly couple takes the hint and shuffles down the front steps of the porch.
"In the kitchen?" Hayes asks. He pushes past me, his turnout gear scraping along my arm as he makes his way into my house. "Aw shit. Sorry, ma'am. Didn't see you standing there."
I don't know if the Lindell Fire Chief would apologize if he heard the way that woman speaks, but I fully understand the courtesy.
"Hayes," Riley says with a dip of her head as he passes by.
"What happened?" Hayes asks as he inches closer to the kitchen.
"Grease fire," Riley explains quickly. "I got distracted."