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)
I smirk, leaning in slightly. “Arrested? Can’t say that I have been close to being arrested.”
She shrugs, tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth. “I’m saying, everyone’s got a story.”
“All right, all right.” I go through the Rolodex in my brain and come up with something that might impress her. “There was this other time in college—we were at this big bonfire party, and someone dared me to climb up the scaffolding they were using to build the homecoming float.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “And you did it?”
“Of course I did it.” I snort, offended by the suggestion that I didn’t. “Made it all the way to the top before campus security showed up. I had to jump down and sprint into the woods to avoid getting caught.”
She shakes her head, her smile widening. “So, what you’re telling me is, you were an adrenaline junkie?”
“I prefer the term ‘adventurous,’” I say with a grin. “What about you? Any skeletons in your closet?”
She bites her lip, her smile turning mischievous. “Hmm. Well. When I was a teenager, I had this thing for stealing real estate signs out of people’s yards.”
“Real estate signs? Like the for sale ones?”
“Yep,” she says, popping the p with pride. “My friends and I thought it was hilarious to ‘rescue’ them from yards and stick them in our friends’ yards—you know, so anyone that drove by would think the house was for sale.”
“How many are we talking here?”
“Eh.” She waves a hand. “A dozen? In my friend Cara’s trunk.”
I let out a low whistle. “So . . . you had a stockpile of real estate signs?”
“Oh no,” she says, her grin widening. “We were driving down a one-way street and got busted by our friend’s neighbor. He called the cops because he thought we were out vandalizing—the cops showed up at my house, and that was the beginning and end of my crime spree.”
“The cops actually came to your house over for sale signs?”
“Yup, totally.” Lucy tosses a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “I answered the door, and there they were—two officers to chew my teenage ass out. My mom was so seriously pissed. I mean—everyone in town knows everyone.”
I am hanging on her every word. “What happened? Did they arrest you?”
“No. I was seventeen and had barely gotten my license.” She says it with a smile, as if fondly recalling the memories. “We had to return the signs and apologize to the man who called the police on us. Do you have any idea how awkward it is to knock on someone’s door to apologize for a crime that hadn’t yet been committed?”
“Young and dumb?”
“Exactly.”
The room falls quiet as I think of something more to say; the sounds of the movie fill the space between us. I glance at her, the corner of my mouth quirking up as an idea strikes.
“Want me to rub your feet?”
She narrows her eyes at me, suspicious. “You’re offering a foot rub. Voluntarily.”
I nod solemnly. “I’m an excellent multitasker. I can watch the movie and pamper you at the same time.”
She snorts. “Pamper me?”
I hold up my palms so she can see them. “I have big, strong, capable hands. It would be a shame not to share them with the world.”
She laughs, tossing a piece of popcorn at me.
I wiggle my fingers at her. “Come on, hand ’em over.”
She bites her lip, clearly debating. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she props her feet up in my lap. “Fine. But just so you know—if this is some elaborate scheme to tickle me, I will end you.”
Chapter 9
Lucy
Oh God, his hands are magic.
Actual.
Magic.
The second his thumbs press into the arch of my foot, my head tips back like I’ve ascended to another plane of existence. It’s embarrassing how good this feels. I can’t stop the soft groan that slips out.
The moment the sound escapes, my eyes snap open in horror. Did I—?
Harris smirks without even looking up. That slow, knowing, infuriating smirk. “Good?” he asks, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
“Sure,” I say quickly, trying to sound indifferent, but it comes out more like a squeak.
“Want me to stop?”
“No!” The word flies out of me like a reflex. I wince. Way too eager. Way too loud.
His smirk deepens, and I hate him. And by hate, I mean I want to crawl into his lap and—oh no. Nope. Stop that. Brain, behave.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, his thumbs finding a new spot on my arch that nearly has me sliding off the couch in bliss.
I grip the armrest like it’s a lifeline.
OhmyGod.
Oh. My. God.
“Relax,” he says, glancing up at me with those warm, teasing eyes.
“I am relaxed,” I lie, my voice trembling like a bad alibi as another shiver runs up my spine.
He raises an eyebrow like he knows I’m full of it. “If you say so.”