Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
He dug through the hamper, pulled out a pair of jeans, sniffed them, tossed them, and dug again until he found a fresher pair. Laundry was on the agenda at some point in the near future.
Tugging on the jeans, half-walking, half-hopping, he didn't bother with the zipper or button as he sharpened his attention on the stifling quiet downstairs. Would she have left? Could she?
A rush of blood heated his neck and face, his fingers curling into his palms. He plucked a toothpick from a holder on the dresser and sprinted down the stairs.
Halfway down the stairs, the scent of lemon and bleach reached Van's nose. Damn, damn, damn. He quickened his descent on silent feet. At the bottom, his gaze landed on the shiny kitchen counters, small appliances and canisters sparkling in a neat row, and Amber's ass hanging out of the fridge in her bend to scrub the deepest corner.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and let his frustration wave off his back. As much as he loved the sight of her in those little shorts cleaning his house, he wanted her to do it for him, not for her illness.
Shoulders back and chest out, he moved to the kitchen with heavy, wide steps. By the time he reached her, she was organizing condiments in the fridge door.
She spun when his footfalls landed behind her. He held his head down, his hand casually rotating the toothpick in his mouth. When her toes flexed against the tiles, he removed the pick, slowly placing it on the counter, and gave her the full force of his eyes.
She tensed, her pupils widening, her lips pinched in a line. The overhead light reflected a metallic glow around her, her dark hair freshly washed and dried. She drew in a lungful of air and grinned with overly bright eyes. “Morning. Sleep well?”
Apparently, he'd slept too well. He hadn't even heard her shower or run the hairdryer. But did the little vixen really think her pleasantries would distract him from the hand that was adjusting the mustard label in the fridge door behind her?
He stifled the laugh bubbling up inside him. Jesus, from the booty shorts and tit-hugging tank top to the fluttering eyelashes and saucy attitude, the whole package was cute as fuck. And defiant.
“Best sleep of my life. You?” He turned away, feigning disinterest in his now spotless kitchen, and reached into the overhead cabinet. His bare feet didn't stick to the tiles like they usually did. She'd been awake for a long-ass time.
“I slept well.” She hadn't moved from her position by the fridge. If she was wary of him, she had every right to be.
He removed a box of Froot Loops and opened the package with intentional slowness as his mind sped through the next ten steps. “Have you eaten?”
“Nope.” A casual response, yet it vibrated with caginess.
He kept his back to her but could feel the heat of her eyes stroking the muscles he'd worked hard to maintain. “How about some cereal?” Froot Loops was a midnight snack. No way would he feed her that junk. Nutritious meals only. Eggs and bacon, fucking protein and shit.
“Uhm. Sure.”
Without turning around, he held the open box over the floor and dumped it upside down. Colorful O's tumbled around his feet. He stepped side-to-side, crunching them into a satisfying dust of sugar.
Her breathing grew loud and rushed behind him. “Oh my God.” Then louder. “Why?” She released an ear-splitting shriek. “I just mopped the floor!”
And he would clean it later. He wasn't a damned slob. Sure, he slacked on the laundry and didn't give a fuck which shelves the cups went on. But she wouldn't find moldy food or mouse droppings or hoarding stashes of crap falling out of the closets. He pivoted slowly to check on her.
Pressed into the gap of the open fridge door, arms wrapped around her rib cage, shoulders curled in, and eyes wildly darting over the floor, she definitely struggled to hold it together. He was about to make it worse.
He emptied the last of the box, tossed it on the mess, and strode toward her with an air of calm and focus. His unyielding grip on her elbow shuffled her sideways as he closed the fridge. Then he backed her into the counter and put his face into hers. “You will not clean up after me.”
Her strong-willed chin appeared, jutting up and out, ready to fight. “I can't live like this. This” —she thrust a trembling finger at the floor— “is not okay.”
“That's right. So here's how it's going to be.” He clutched the counter on either side of her hips, arms straight, with two feet of tension rotating between them. “As long as you are obsessively clean, I'm going to be obsessively not clean. For every inch you give, I'll match it. We'll eventually meet in the middle.” He lowered his head so she could see his eyes. “Got me?”