Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 98643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98643 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I heard Flynn insisting that I leave the pot on the ground and he’d come back and get it, but I wasn’t sure. I pretended he was saying it, though, because that was the only thing keeping me moving. The man had seen me beaten to a pulp, he’d assumed I was a woman not once but twice, he’d made me feel stupid with passion with a couple of amazing kisses and then he proved that he was just like every other ignorant asshole who looked at me twice when I had my glam on. Hell, he probably would have joined in on my beating in town if he’d realized I was a guy and not a girl.
Stupid fucking damsel in distress syndrome. I had it in spades, though I’d obviously altered it a bit, especially after reading so many romance novels as a teenager. They’d been books about men and women getting together, of course, but since I always put myself in the girl’s spot, it hadn’t really mattered. Despite how silly some of the storylines had been and certain parts hadn’t left me hot and bothered, I’d always loved the moment when the pirate or the duke—or yes, the fucking cowboy—saved the woman who always did something stupid that left her captured by the villain. I’d envisioned my own steamy fantasies as needed, but the end of the story was always the same.
The couple got their happily ever after.
That was where fantasy and reality always collided and knocked me back on my ass. Even at that age, I’d known in my gut that I wouldn’t get my own happy ending. Not the kind I truly wanted, anyway.
It had been nice to begin to identify with more and more characters in books and movies that had featured same-sex couples and become socially acceptable, but even when it’d been a couple guys facing a perfect future together in the story, I was always left feeling a little sad.
Those stories should have given me this wild hope that I’d find someone like the badass guy with the heart of gold, but I knew better than that. Even as being gay became more mainstream, I was anything but mainstream. I was lost somewhere in the middle, and I couldn’t really even explain why.
“Jules,” I heard someone call, though they seemed far away.
Wasn’t I supposed to be in the middle of something?
The reminder of where I was came screaming back to life when I felt my body catch fire.
“Jules!” Flynn yelled, but he was too late because as I lifted the pot from what had to be the kitchen tile floor in the bunkhouse, my noodle-like arms chose that moment to give out on me. While the stew wasn’t searing hot on the top, what splashed onto me as the entire pot tilted when it hit the lip of the counter came from the deeper contents of the container.
And that shit was fucking hot.
Fire licked at my skin as the stew from the tipped pot began tilting left and slid over my entire forearm before hitting the kitchen floor in big splotches. I wasn’t sure whether I cried out or not but instead of following my instinct to release the pot and pull my arm away, some small part of my brain told me I couldn’t let the whole container hit the ground, so I did my best to try and right it on my own.
“Jesus Christ!” Flynn yelled and then, thankfully, he was pulling the pot out of my weak arms.
“Is most of it still in there?” I asked tiredly, even as my brain began to process the howling nerve signals it was being sent. Somewhere in the melee, I’d sunk to my knees. I thought I might be holding my arm, but I wasn’t sure.
“Is most of it still—?” Flynn said in disbelief before he reached down and wrapped his arm around my waist. As he pulled me upright, I realized I was holding my left arm with my right hand in order to protect it, but every little jostle had me moaning in agony.
“So stupid,” I muttered.
Flynn maneuvered me to the sink. I braced myself for the cool water that was going to hit my still-sizzling skin, but to my surprise, Flynn said, “Keep holding your arm like that. I need to see how bad the burn is.” As he spoke he pulled a first aid kit from a large drawer next to the sink. “Did it get you anywhere else, Jules?”
My eyes hovered over Flynn’s big hands as he used a pair of scissors he’d gotten from the first aid kit to snip through the fabric of my sweatshirt, revealing reddened skin that was missing several layers. I knew it was my own skin but couldn’t yet process that it was the cause of the pain searing through me.