Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76022 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
This guy, though?
He was the fluttering heart, weak-kneed kind of gorgeous with his inky hair, his golden skin, his abundance of dark tattoos, his strong jaw, and the black eyes so deep I felt like I could dive in them and drown.
It was hard to tell his height when I was towering above him on the ladder, but he seemed tall and incredibly fit under his loose gray linen button-up and black jean shorts.
“You saved me.”
Great first line.
Genius.
But my mind was wiped blank of anything else.
The man’s eyes warmed. His lips curved up ever so slightly. His lips parted to say something.
Only to have freaking Konstantin interrupt.
“What are you doing?”
I still wasn’t quite used to the kind of blunt, almost stern way my boss spoke. It took effort to remember not everything he said was an accusation, even if it sounded like one.
“Checking the vent,” I told him, a little embarrassed to be having a work conversation in front of the random hot stranger.
“Why?”
“Because I was told to see what was wrong with the air.”
“Told?” Konstantin asked, brows lowering. “By who? Not me.”
“No, not you. But I got a call telling me to come in and—”
“From Mikhail?”
“Oh, ah. No. It was a woman. She—”
“Can’t mind her business,” Konstantin cut in, rambling off something under his breath in Russian. “You go. This can wait.” He flicked a hand toward the vent. “Irina!” he barked, snapping his fingers and drawing the attention of the woman I’d spoken to earlier.
Irina stalked toward Konstantin, her heels clicking like little bombs, reflecting her frustration. She drifted in and out of English and Russian. The only clear thing I made out was her snarling at him for snapping at her like a servant. That was fair enough. No one wanted to be snapped at.
Suddenly feeling very silly for still being up on a ladder, I slowly made my way down. I didn’t really realize what I was doing until I literally felt the guy’s hands brush the sides of my knees.
So, yeah.
My ass was all in his face.
And, hey, it was a decent ass and everything. But that was still super awkward with a stranger.
I rushed further down, feeling his arms moving around me, his chest near my back.
I blamed him for it.
His delicious nag champa scent harkened back to memories of wandering into a local new age store to buy bulk crystals for a craft project I’d been making for my teenage bedroom, his body warmth was much appreciated in the cold pool hall, and even his breath sent shivers across my skin.
It was all his fault that I missed one of the ladder rungs and started to fall.
Suddenly, one of his hands wasn’t on the ladder anymore because his arm was wrapping around my midsection, catching me and hauling me back against his chest.
Which, yeah, was doing absolutely nothing to distract me from the flood of interest rushing through my veins.
His arm was an anchor, his chest wide and strong. And his damn thumb was teasing at the underside of my boob.
Goosebumps prickled.
The air got too thick to breathe.
My heart? Yeah, it was doing some sort of freestyle.
We weren’t going to talk about a specific other part of my anatomy and its urge to grab this guy, pull him into the supply closet, and ease a very desperate ache.
“You alright?”
With your deep voice rumbling through your chest and into mine? With your warm breath on my ear? No, not at all.
“Yeah.” We were going to pretend my voice wasn’t all breathy. You know, for my own pride. “Thanks,” I added.
He was still holding me.
One second. Two. Five.
The cracking sound of the cue ball breaking the rack had us both jerking.
He released me.
I tried not to whimper at the lack of him and focused on stepping to the side and putting a little space between us.
“Thanks again,” I said, hoping my voice sounded stronger.
“Always a good day when I can save a woman—and a table full of people—from harm.”
I was about to open my mouth to say something when another man appeared at his side.
“Coach, you gonna introduce me to your friend?” he asked.
Coach.
Huh.
That was not the name I expected.
Unless it was a nickname. Or, maybe, a profession?
Instinctively, my stomach tightened and twisted.
“You’re pretty,” the man—tall, handsome, covered in zany tattoos—said.
“I, uh, thanks.”
“I’m Raff.”
“Raff. Is that short for Rafferty?” I asked. I had a thing for names. Maybe because mine was on the unusual side.
“It’s short for riff-raff.”
“As in… who let the riff-raff in?”
“Exactly.”
“So, is there a riff?”
“My brother.”
“That makes sense. Are they your real names?”
“Road names.”
“I… have no idea what that means.”
“We’re a club,” Raff said, gesturing between himself and Coach. “Motorcycle,” he added when I clearly still didn’t understand.
“Oh, okay.”
Now that he mentioned it, Raff was wearing one of those vests I always saw bikers wearing. Though Coach didn’t have one on. Maybe he was new or something.