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 take another long sip of coffee, savoring the bitterness as I lean back in my chair. The place is getting busier now, the low hum of chatter filling the café.
I should go.
I stand, trying to hold both my coffee in one hand and my cinnamon roll in another, pulling the door open with the tip of my boot, managing to do so. Hold it open with my shoulder. The bell above my head jingles, and the cool breeze hits my face as I begin stepping out onto the sidewalk.
Ahh. Not bad. Not bad at all . . .
The sunshine is bright, almost blinding as it rises over the lake.
Distracted by the view, I remove the lid from my coffee cup to dunk the cinnamon roll inside, ready to sip my brew and lick frosting off the tips of my fingers when it happens.
Thud.
I walk straight into someone.
The impact sends steaming hot coffee sloshing over the rim of the cup, the liquid spilling across the front of my hoodie.
“Shit!” I hiss, the heat soaking through the fabric as I stumble back. I can feel it soak my skin.
“Oh God! I am so sorry!” a distressed voice exclaims, and I finally look up at the commotion I’ve caused.
A woman stands in front of me, wide-eyed with shock.
Her dark hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing a fitted pink jacket over matching pink leggings. Coffee streaks down the sleeve of her jacket as she crouches to grab the yoga mat that fell out of her hands when I crashed into her. Her cheeks are flushed, and she looks everywhere but at me. I bend to help her because that’s what gentlemen do . . .
“Shit—sorry,” I manage, though I’m still too flustered to string together anything coherent. Too tired. Still early. My coffee is officially a lost cause, dripping down the front of my gray sweatshirt and staining it.
“No, no, it’s my fault,” she protests, face inches from mine. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Neither was I,” I admit, glancing around for a trash can. The coffee cup is still in my hand, but it’s useless now, mostly empty and dripping like a leaky faucet. I stuff the remaining roll in my mouth and chew, buying myself time to think of something new to say.
Damn, she’s cute.
I give her ring finger a quick glance: It’s bare.
Things are starting to look up.
Maybe she’d be down to hang out, and by hang out, I mean have casual sex. I have time to kill, considering I’m not doing the whole retreat thing and have no activities planned.
As we both stand, she clears her throat, tucking the mat beneath her armpit, then brushes an invisible speck of dirt from the front of her pink jacket. She glances at me, her lips quirking like she knows I’ve been staring at her boobs, trying to figure out if she’s flat chested or if the sports bra is holding them down.
Not that it matters. I’m an equal opportunity boob guy. Small tits, big tits—I love them all.
Her eyes narrow, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Are you going to say something, or are you going to keep standing there, working out the square footage of what’s inside my jacket?”
I blink, caught off guard. Laugh. “Sorry, my brain is running on fumes.” Wasn’t trying to be rude.
She arches a brow.
“I’m Harris—and I would shake your hand, but I got sticky fingers.” I hold the door open so she can slip inside, then follow her, intending to buy her whatever she wants.
“Harris,” she repeats, mulling the name over. “I can’t say I’ve seen you around before. Are you in town for work or pleasure? Wait.” She snaps her fingers. “Are you part of the group of men who took over half the rooms at the lodge?”
As if I would admit to being in town for a fucking retreat.
“I am here for work.” Forcibly, against my will, ha ha. Can’t deny it.
“You are?” Her brows shoot up farther into her hairline. “Oh my gosh. Are you a lumberjack?”
Am I a lumberjack? What the fuck is she talking about?
“’Cause my friend Annabelle is practically pulling her hair out waiting for y’all to get here,” she goes on. “She wasn’t sure you were coming.”
I absolutely have no fucking clue what she’s talking about, but she’s so damn adorable I let her keep talking. Crossing my arms, I lean against a table next to the windows, playing along for the sheer entertainment value.
A lumberjack? Can’t say I’ve ever been accused of being one of those, but it sounds fun, and it’s been a mind-numbing twenty-four hours.
“Lumberjack?” I say. “What gave it away?”
This oughta be good.
She grins, enjoying this as much as I am. “Oh, you know. The broad shoulders, the mussed-up hair, the cuts and bruises on your hands. You give off ‘I wrestle bears for fun’ energy. It’s so very lumberjacky.”