Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 350(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
His seduction skills, however…
“So. Tired.” I yawn so widely my eyes water.
“Then for today I’ll excuse your tardiness to class,” he whispers in my ear.
I grin. “Are we doing this? Tell me we are so doing this… sometime.”
“We are so doing this sometime.”
Squeee!
I yawn again, and my eyelids feel so heavy. “I need to go home,” I say. “I can get Prince in the morning.”
He brushes my hair off my back and gives my shoulder a gentle kiss.
Why does that feel so good?
“We haven’t even had dinner.”
I nod. “God, I’m starving.”
“So at least let me make you dinner, then you can crash in the guest room and take Prince home in the morning.” He cringes. “I’m afraid she’ll wake up if you take him tonight, and what do I do with a kid who wakes up in the middle of the night?”
I think it over.
“Okay,” I say, in what is probably the shortest end to a protest in the history of ever. I raise my index finger and point it at him. “But no sleeping with me.”
“Wow, so you mentally went there.”
I snort. “As if you didn’t?”
A knowing look.
Zing.
“Deal.”
“And I ask you everything you know in the morning,” I counter.
“Fine. But I get up at six to work out, and I’m in the office by seven.”
I open one heavy eyelid. “You monster!”
His unyielding dark gaze meets mine, and my own wanders down to those large, powerful hands I imagine holding me down.
“My house,” he begins.
I so regret those impulsive words.
Chapter 10
Miguel
She’s exhausted and tipsy as fuck, and I wish those two things didn’t make her so damn adorable.
But… they do.
I didn’t know I had a thing for quirky until Samantha.
Gotta eat. Gotta cook. I try to reel my focus back.
I place a package of chicken along with some spinach and garlic on the counter.
“Can I help?” she asks.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“You don’t want a sous-chef?”
I imagine her standing beside me, peeling vegetables and slicing things up. Maybe I’m standing behind her, hands on her hips.
It’s an image I quite like.
“Not tonight. It’s late, so I want to make something simple.”
She yawns. “Okay, then if you don’t mind, I’m going to head over to the sofa and rest a bit.”
She’s going to fall dead asleep, that’s what she’s going to do. I’d bet money on it.
I nod and gesture toward the living room. “Remote’s on the table.”
I toss olive oil, sliced onion, and garlic into a sizzling hot pan, as she puts the television on and flicks through the channels.
“No way! You have the old shows my grandma used to watch. How do you have the old shows?”
“It’s a channel. Don’t you have TV?”
She shakes her head. “I usually watch something on my iPad or just read.”
Ah, she’s a reader. Should’ve guessed that. I can easily imagine her trotting up to the library with an armful of books, or curling up on a porch swing, lost in the pages of a story.
Her running commentary amuses me.
“Shit, they started up that fucking bachelor show again?”
“Did they ever stop?”
She flicks on by. “Maybe not. But it’s the stupidest reality TV show on the planet. I mean, I’d rather watch that show where they’re naked and have to survive on an island.”
“Yeah?” I toss seasoned chicken breasts in next, and the scent wafts through the rooms.
“Okay, the nuts didn’t help.”
“What?”
“The nuts. I ate your nuts, and they didn’t help.”
My gut clenches. What the fuck is she talking about?
I grab a handful of baby spinach as the water comes to a boil, then toss the pasta in.
“They just didn’t fill me up.”
What?
I look over at her as the food sizzles and simmers behind me.
Oh.
Oh.
I turn back to the stove, shaking my head at myself. I’ve had a hard-on for three solid hours, and apparently now I have the mind of a seventh grader.
“That smells delicious, by the way.”
So do you.
“Thank you. Cooking relaxes me.”
“Good thing you own a restaurant.” She snorts at her own joke.
“What’s your gripe with the bachelor show?” I ask. I’m very interested in her thoughts on dating, bachelors, and relationships.
I shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t give the slightest shit about what she thinks about those things.
“They’re just so staged,” she says, making a face like she’s just taken a bite of a lemon. “Plus, they just parade these people around like it’s a meat market.”
“Fair.”
“And the guys they pick for these shows, I mean, come on.”
I stir the food. “What do you have against them?”
“They’re just so… fake. Stereotypical.” She shakes her head. “It’s like those houses in gated communities, all cookie cutter and unidentifiable. They all look the same.”
I raise a brow at her. “Oh? Those houses are the bedrock of some communities, though. They have their benefits.” I don’t tell her I own several.
She shakes her head, leans back, and closes her eyes. She’s definitely feeling the effects of her drinks.