Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
“High standards,” she teases.
I motion toward a small door in the corner, then walk over and push it open so she can peer inside. “Voilà! Here we have the bathroom. Complete with a mirror, a toilet, and zero spiders. As promised.”
“You weren’t kidding about the rustic charm. Cute and cozy.”
“It’s home for the week.” I lean against the doorframe. “Does the trick.”
We head back to the living room and sink onto the couch; Lucy pulls her legs up under her and attempts to get comfortable.
“Welp. I’m officially in love with this place.” Her fingers stroke the throw blanket there. “Fun fact: Annabelle’s aunt and uncle own the lodge, and oddly, she and I never spent the night in any of the rooms. Or these cabins. But maybe I should suggest it for a staycation—this is too, too cute.”
“You’re welcome to hang out here as long as you like.”
She tilts her head, studying me. Ignores my suggestion with a shake of her head, smile fading as she glances at the coffee table. “All right, let’s see if your movie selection lives up to the hype.” She pulls out Coming to America and holds it up. “Let’s start with this one. It’s a classic.”
“Good choice,” I say, leaning back as she sets up the tape.
As the opening credits roll and she settles back onto the couch, I can’t help but glance at her out of the corner of my eye. Her messy bun is slightly lopsided, her hoodie sleeves are pushed up to her elbows, and she looks completely at ease.
And that’s when my brain begins with the There’s a girl in your house, dude. A female. And she smells good. Like vanilla and something faintly floral. How do girls do that? Smell like a delicious candle but also: sunshine?
I shift slightly, trying not to overthink it, but my brain’s having none of that. She’s sitting close enough that if you moved a few inches, your knee would touch hers.
Do it.
Touch your knee to her knee.
I shake my head and force my focus back on the screen. Eddie Murphy is talking, jokes are being made, and I’m trying my best to keep up.
But then she laughs—a soft, genuine laugh that pulls me right back out of the movie and straight into the fact that a sexy woman is beside me, all snuggled up, giggling at the TV.
One I have been horny for since the second I saw her.
“I can feel you looking at me,” she says, turning her head slightly but not fully looking at me.
My stomach drops, and I blink like a deer caught in headlights. “What? No. I wasn’t—”
“You totally were,” she cuts me off, meeting my gaze, lips twitching into a small smirk. “You’re a terrible liar.”
I grin. “You would think that would be a selling point.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lucy says. “Every woman’s dream: a man who can’t lie to save his life. Every now and again I appreciate being told I look gorgeous even when I know I look wretched.”
“You’re in luck, because I’m honest to a fault. And an open book. Practically a saint.”
I lay it on thick, grinning as I deliver the line. It pays off when a bubble of laughter rises in her throat, and she giggles again—this time at me, not the movie.
“A saint, huh?” she says, tilting her head to the side as her eyes narrow in mock suspicion. “Tell me more.”
“I’ve never stolen anything,” I say, pausing for dramatic effect. “Unless you count the fancy crayons I snagged from the grocery store when I was six. In my defense, I was racked with guilt by the time we hit the parking lot, and took them back.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “So, what you’re telling me is, your life of crime started and ended with a crayon theft?”
“Exactly. Clean slate ever since,” I reply, grinning. “I’m practically a model citizen.”
She picks up a piece of popcorn and tosses it at me, her smirk growing. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done in public?”
Let me count the ways:
Play football in front of thousands of people.
Give press conferences on live television.
Sprayed a bottle of champagne that cost $25,000 in a club during a New Year’s Eve celebration.
Had the king of England try on my Super Bowl ring, also on national television.
Ran naked through downtown Phoenix at three in the morning.
The list of crazy, fucked-up shit goes on and on.
“Uh. Let me think.” Hmm, what can I tell her without giving away details about my actual life? “I had sex in public when I was in college. Does that count?”
It was behind a fraternity house, and it was with a girl I was dating at the time, and I’m fairly certain the girl was trying to accidentally on purpose get pregnant.
Lucy rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “That’s your craziest? Sex outside? Come on—tell me something wild. Something stupid. Something that could get you arrested if the wrong person was watching.”