Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I can practically smell the frustration rolling off him like cologne. But it’s a good cologne—virile, powerful, full of the quiet intensity you want on the ice when the game’s down to the final minute.
He lifts a hand and rests it on the doorframe like he’s trying to seem casual, but it doesn’t work. He’s gripping it. Hard.
I part my lips, unsure what to say or why he’s here. I’m not used to someone showing up like this. In this state of…need. Simon’s not either. Maybe that’s why my dog hasn’t even gotten up from his late-afternoon nap. He’s upstairs in a dog-sized sleigh bed that’s far too comfortable.
Ford’s mere feet away, and he beats me to it, speaking first. “Your shirt’s off.”
I blink. “What?”
He jerks his chin at me, scowling. “The buttons. They’re off. I saw you buttoning it.”
I gaze down at my navy-blue blouse with tiny flowers on it. “It’s not—”
Oh. It is.
“It’s askew,” he cuts in.
“So you came over here to help me button my shirt?”
“If you want help,” he mutters.
I don’t need it, but the thought burns me up from the inside. I’m so thrown off, I don’t know what to say.
His frame blocks me from a view of the street. His eyes burn into mine. I reach down and start unbuttoning the shirt, one by one, my fingers skating across my heated skin, redoing each button as I go, methodically, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to fix my shirt in front of my neighbor.
Ford doesn’t stop watching. And I don’t want him to.
When I finish, I glance back up at him, my heart racing wildly. “You saw me from the yard?”
“I did,” he says—fearless, unashamed.
The thought of him watching me is…outrageously thrilling. A pulse beats between my thighs.
“You’re helpful,” I say in a heated whisper.
“Trying to be,” he says, then licks his lips. “The fake date,” he adds, like the words are heavy in his mouth.
“Which one?” I ask, carefully. I’m desperately hoping he’s not about to back out.
Either one, both of them, they feel like…parties I get to go to. Like it’s Halloween, and I get to dress up in the best way. I like these costume parties. I don’t want them to end.
He nods tightly. “Both. But mostly the gala. Are you good with it?”
“I said I was,” I answer, confused.
“I wanted to make sure.”
“I’m sure,” I add.
He stares at me, his blue eyes flickering with flames. He lowers his arm from the door, but his muscles are still tense, his forearms flexing. He’s no more relaxed than when he banged on the door. He glances past me, toward the inside of my house. It hits me then—he’s never actually been in here.
“Can I come in?” he asks, a new urgency in his voice. “Or are you going to be late?”
“I have ten minutes before I have to go.”
“To catch the bus?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll drive you.” It comes out like a command.
“I still only have fifteen minutes.”
“That’s fine.” The click of the door shutting activates guard-dog mode. Simon barks, then hustles his little wiggling body down the stairs. He rushes over immediately, whimpering and circling Ford like they’ve known each other for years.
I think of Landon. Of the times he ignored Simon. Of the other guys I dated who didn’t care, didn’t even ask to see a photo on our first dates. But Ford? He crouches down and strokes Simon’s long, soft ears with this gentle reverence that melts my heart.
“Hey there,” he murmurs. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? A very good boy, helping your mom with the bills.”
My brain short-circuits.
He called me Mom. A dog mom, sure, but still—I love it too much. The stupid, silly designation that we dog lovers use is doing unfair things to my insides.
Once Simon trots off to his living room bed—shaped like a cupcake—Ford rises slowly, his gaze locking with mine. “If we’re going to fake date,” he says, “we should probably…” His eyes drift to my mouth.
I feel it. The shift in the air. The way every nerve in my body goes on high alert. The pull.
He doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
But he does.
“Fake kiss.”
And all I can think is yes, please, and now.
“Don’t make it fake,” I say.
Ford lifts a hand, reaches for my face, and cups my cheek. He strokes his thumb along my jawline, and I gasp—a staggered breath that gives away every ounce of my unchecked lust.
His dimple flashes, but it disappears quickly as he studies my face like he’s memorizing me.
He’s focused, deliberate, every slow, tantalizing sweep of his thumb drawing me closer to the edge. Then he coasts it down to my chin. Holds me in place.
“Your lips…drive me fucking wild,” he rasps.
I part them. For him.
And he shows me exactly how wild when he covers my mouth with his and kisses me fiercely.