Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 75(@300wpm)
He gives me a look. Like he can see right through me. And honestly? I’m not surprised. I’m pretty sure my thoughts are flashing like a freaking neon sign on my forehead.
Nonnie breezes through the awkwardness, motioning for us to sit. “Come, come, let’s eat before everything gets cold.”
She’s set the table with her good plates, a sure sign she’s matchmaking, and I end up sandwiched between her and Preston, who’s close enough that I can feel heat radiating off his arm.
The meal is classic Nonnie. She made roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, green peas, and her famous lemonade. We serve ourselves and make small talk, the clinking of forks against plates covering the fact that I am absolutely dying inside.
“So, Hazel,” Preston says, pausing mid-bite, watching me across the table with his warm smile. “Your grandmother tells me you’re a librarian.”
Thank God. This I can do. I sit up a little straighter, hands folded primly, like I’m prepping for a story hour with rowdy first graders. “Yep. I work at the Worthington Hills Downtown Branch.”
His deep, rolling laugh slides under my skin. “I've always liked libraries. The way old books smell.” He gives a little shrug, eyes never leaving mine. “My mom used to say it was like bottled nostalgia.”
Every word from his mouth sends little sparks shooting down my spine. I can barely swallow. My body is awake and humming, all my lady parts snapping to attention and singing his praises like a gospel choir on Sunday morning.
“Are you from around here?” I blurt out the first question that comes to mind.
He shakes his head. “Born and raised in California. But I moved out here for work.” He glances at Nonnie, who is beaming at both of us like she’s just played a masterful chess move. “I opened up my own firm with my best friend.”
“Very nice.” I hope my response is appropriate. Because who knows? My brain hasn’t functioned properly since the moment I walked in the door. I’m basically a walking disaster. Every cell in my body is screaming, and Preston’s sitting so close his knee bumps mine under the table. I swear, I feel it everywhere. Like my skin is stretched too tight, and there’s a live wire running straight from him to me.
He grins, then takes a bite of chicken and lifts a cloth napkin up to his lips. I watch the motion like I’m in a trance. My mouth goes dry. My thoughts are definitely not safe for lunchtime conversation.
Nonnie is full-on enjoying herself, asking Preston about his favorite foods, his hobbies, what he likes to watch on TV, and every answer makes my brain short-circuit a little more. Because Preston’s voice is low and deep, each word vibrates through my bones. He steals glances at me every other sentence, and it’s like he’s undressing me with his eyes.
My cheeks go up in flames, and I can feel my pulse in my toes. My chest gets tight, and my skin prickles all over every time I glance at him.
I stab at a bite of scalloped potatoes and bring it to my mouth. I should be enjoying my favorite meal, but I barely taste a thing. Which is a shame, because Nonnie makes her potatoes with like, half a pound of cheddar and enough garlic to ward off every vampire in Texas. It’s criminally good. But I’m too busy counting the seconds until Preston bumps my knee again under the table to register anything else.
Preston’s knee nudges mine again, this time on purpose, and I almost drop my fork. The jolt goes straight through my body, lighting me up like a Christmas tree. I freeze, but my knee doesn’t move. Neither does his.
Under the table, our knees are pressed together, like this is some kind of secret game only we’re playing. Except it’s not much of a secret because my face is probably red enough to signal a rescue helicopter from space.
I try to focus on the food. I really do. But my brain is all static and Preston. How is it physically possible for one man to take up this much space in my mind? Every time I sneak a glance at him, he’s already watching me, eyes hooded, mouth ticking up at the corners like he’s pleased with what he sees.
I’m not exaggerating. It’s the kind of look that should come with a warning label. Or a fire extinguisher. Or, like, a public service announcement about not making direct eye contact unless you’re prepared to have your entire insides torched. My fork is basically useless in my hand. All I can focus on is the heat rolling off Preston’s body, and the way his gaze drags over me like he’s already decided I’m what he wants for dessert.
I try not to look back at him, but it’s physically impossible. His knee is still pressed against mine, rock solid and immovable. Like he’s staked a claim. There’s zero chill in this man. None. He’s not even pretending to play it cool. So, I decide to give him a little taste of his own medicine. I kick off my sandal and slide my foot slowly up the inside of his leg, starting at his ankle and ending somewhere right below his knee. He jerks, just the tiniest bit, but I see it. His eyes snap to mine, and for a second, I swear he forgets how to breathe. All that cool, cocky confidence? Gone. His pupils are blown wide, his eyes so blue it’s almost dangerous, and I can literally see the pulse hammering at the base of his throat.