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 roll my eyes. “I’ll call you back. My boyfriend needs me.”
“No! Don’t hang up!” she begs. “Put me on FaceTime!”
“Bye Annabelle,” I singsong, turning my attention back to Harris, who lets out a strained laugh, still lying in the trash pile.
“Boyfriend, huh?” he has the energy to ask. “I like the sound of that.”
I gape at him. “You almost died, and that’s what you’re focusing on?”
He blinks up at me, head half buried in a pile of my recycling. It’s strewn all over, bottles and cans rolling across the pavement.
Harris closes his eyes, smiling as if he has stars behind his eyelids. “If I go out, I wanna go out hearing you call me your boyfriend.”
I make a strangled noise, trying not to giggle. “You are not my boyfriend.”
“Not with that attitude.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Harris, why were you climbing up the side of my house?”
He winces as he shifts, dislodging a crumpled box from beneath his back. “I thought through the part where I’d surprise you. I miscalculated the execution and the amount of weight that trellis can hold. In theory, I was being romantic.”
I blink. “In theory?”
“Yes.” He begins pushing himself up by the elbows. “In execution? Less romantic. More . . . mildly concussed.”
I stare at him.
Harris stumbles to his feet, brushing debris off his jeans before straightening to his full height. Too close. The smell of his cologne, mixed with a hint of cedar and—yesterday’s leftover pizza and expired condiments—wraps around me.
Holy crap does he stink.
“For the record, I knocked first.”
I raise a brow. “And when I didn’t answer, you thought, ‘better climb the house’?”
He flashes me that easy, infuriating grin. “What can I say? I’m committed.”
I gawp up at him. “Committed to making me lose my mind?”
“Committed to seeing you,” he corrects smoothly.
My stomach flips as I step back. “You scared the crap out of me.”
His expression shifts, something softer edging into his amusement. “Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Harris exhales and takes a tentative step toward my porch. That’s when I notice the slight hitch in his stride.
I frown. “Are you limping?”
He scoffs. “Me? Pfft, no.”
A second later, he stumbles.
I arch a brow.
“Fine. Perhaps I’m limping a little.”
I sigh, stepping forward. “Come on, garbage boy. Let’s get you inside before you actually break something.”
He grins, and I don’t miss the way he leans on me for support as I hook an arm around his waist. He’s solid, his body radiating warmth and a strong smell of—I gulp—trash.
Harris glances down at me. “You’re strong for someone your size.”
The moment we’re inside, I shut the door behind us and drop my keys on the counter.
“Bathroom,” I announce, already steering him in that direction.
He gives me a lazy grin. “Trying to get me naked already?”
“Trying to get you clean.”
I guide him down the hallway, push open my small bathroom door, flip on the light. Harris steps inside, glancing around as I cross my arms.
“Clothes off,” I order.
“Oooh.” His brows lift. “Daddy like.”
My eyes roll. “You reek to high heaven.”
Harris grins, pleased with himself. “Aw, come on, babe. You don’t find my Eau de Garbage rugged? Manly?”
I make a face. “If you don’t get in that shower right now, I will drag your ass outside and hose you down for all the neighbors to see.” And by neighbors, I mean my parents, who—thank God—are not home at the moment.
He chuckles, reaching for the hem of his shirt. “Kinky.”
His grin is wobbly as he lifts his shirt, peeling it off in one slow motion. The fabric clings, damp and dirty, before he finally drops it onto the tiled floor.
I inhale through my nose, regret settling deep in my chest as I get a proper look at him.
His ribs are faintly bruised from the fall, a smudge of dirt streaking along his side. He’s favoring one leg slightly, and now that his adrenaline is fading, I can see the stiffness in his movements. The way he exhales a little too hard, like breathing itself is painful.
I press my lips together.
“You’re hurt,” I murmur, stepping closer. I place a hand on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. Playing doctor.
He stills instantly. I don’t know if it’s because of the touch or because he knows I won’t buy whatever tough-guy nonsense he’s about to sell me. Either way, his smirk falters.
I exhale softly, smoothing my hand over his ribs, careful but searching. He tenses slightly under my touch.
“Does this hurt?” I ask quietly, pressing lightly over the faint bruising.
His jaw tics. “Not really.”
I look at him.
He sighs. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I shake my head, guilt curling in my stomach. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
His brow furrows. “Sure you should have. I scared the shit out of you.”
I frown, fingers still absently tracing his side. “Yeah, but now you’re hurt, and I feel like an ass.”