Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77611 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
He doesn’t respond, so I sigh and turn on the tap again, running wet hands through my hair until I no longer look like Sonic the Hedgehog. That’ll have to do for now, I think, girding my loins.
(Weirdest saying ever, by the way, but I guess telling people to “make diaper-shorts out of your man-skirt so you don’t trip in battle” isn’t nearly as catchy. The more you know, right?)
As soon as I open the door and see Michael leaning against the dresser, an ACE bandage in his hand and a look on his face that is the opposite of casual, my girding unravels and leaves me hanging.
Wood is still the word of the day.
“I found this in the first aid kit,” he says quietly. “It should help stabilize your ankle so you don’t twist it again.”
I’d like to argue, but I’m still hurting from my bathroom excursion so I nod grimly. “Where do you want me?”
Leading question, I know, and so does he, based on the spark I see in his eyes. Before he can answer, I carefully step toward the uncomfortable-looking wooden desk chair. The only place to sit that isn’t that bed. “Let’s do it there.”
I roll my eyes because everything sounds sexual at the moment, then turn to face him, lowering myself into the chair. When he’s right in front of me, I look up at his face. Mostly so I’m not staring at the zipper of his jeans—and what I already know it’s hiding—like a sex-starved perv.
But that’s what you are.
I’m also his guest and a man he would have rescued regardless of who I was or whether we’d met before. I need to try and keep some perspective here. Which isn’t easy when he kneels at my feet like some knight about to ask for a damn quest to win my favor or a prince who wants to make sure the slipper fits before he pops the question.
I snort when he gently takes my foot in his hand.
He looks up. “What? Are you ticklish or did that hurt?”
“Neither. I was just thinking about Cinderella.”
“That’s…unexpected.”
I wave an arm around. “Random is practically my middle name, and we’re basically in a Disney bridal suite, so it’s not that unexpected.”
He grimaces in agreement, beginning the process of wrapping my ankle. “So, what about her?”
I’m not sure if he really wants to know or he’s just distracting me. “Not her so much as the story in general. The ending is completely unrealistic. No one else in the entire village had the same shoe size? Really? And the prince was willing to base the future prosperity of his kingdom on that statistical improbability? What a horrible way to pick a partner. Think about it. He could have ended up with Sal the grocer instead of Cinderella. A big hairy guy with a bad temper and a booze problem but unexpectedly dainty feet could have been his new princess. Make it make sense.”
“Fairytales aren’t known for their realism.” He sounds amused and relaxed, which is nice for him since I’m about the climb the walls as his deliciously rough fingers caress my leg. “Not that it ever stopped my mother from believing in them. She’s an artist,” he explains when I don’t respond right away. “She’s been painting fairies and magical creatures for as long as I can remember. No bunny weddings, though.”
“She sounds fun.” And she does. An artist with a wild imagination certainly tops what I grew up with. It might explain why mother discussions make me so uncomfortable. Meeting the parents is something I’m only willing to do for my students, and even that gives me knots in my stomach.
In case you were wondering? My mother was…not fun.
I tangle my fingers together to keep myself from touching him as he adjusts the wrap. “Can I ask what you were doing outside in that weather today? You never told me.”
“I was checking on the generator and chopping more wood for the fireplace. The wind had really started picking up when I heard you singing. I thought I might be imagining it, but I decided to check it out, just in case.”
If he hadn’t, I’m not sure I would have made it to him. “Have I said thank you yet?”
“You have.” His hands are on my knees now as he stares at me. “And you’re welcome. I’m glad I was there.”
This close, I can see the crow’s feet around thickly-lashed eyes. The lightest sprinkle of freckles on his skin. His beard isn’t bushy, but trimmed to perfectly frame his lips and draw attention to his strong jaw. Still a GQ dragon, in spite of his claims of chopping wood in the wilderness.
“You cut your hair and grew out a beard. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
He runs a hand over his short haircut self-consciously. “It was time for a change. This is easier to manage.” The look he sends me is somehow both bashful and carnal. “And you’re the one who told me not to shave.”