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 nod, a smile tugging at my lips. “I can do that.”
“So. What about Friday?”
Friday? As in, “This Friday? Five days from now?”
“Yeah. Friday. Can I take you to dinner?” The way he’s watching my reaction as he says the words, “I’ll fly you out. Dinner under the desert sky, you and me.”
My jaw drops. “You want to fly me to Arizona for dinner?”
Is He Crazy? Who Does That?
Harris shrugs, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. And who knows, maybe it is. “I told you—I don’t want to wait. And I definitely don’t want to say goodbye like this and not see you for weeks.”
I press a hand to my chest to temper my beating heart. “You know most guys just FaceTime.”
“Most guys aren’t me.”
“You’re insane.”
“Only for you.” He raises my hand to kiss my palm. “Let me fly you out. We’ll have dinner, I’ll show you around the city, and you’ll see exactly where I am when we talk every day. It won’t feel so far.”
I bite my lip, heart pounding. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.” His smile softens. “Come to Arizona and have dinner with me.”
Chapter 29
Lucy
The rash has spread.
And it itches worse than it did. Like, full-body, “can’t stop squirming,” “this is a nightmare” itching.
I blink against the soft morning light filtering through Harris’s bedroom window, disoriented for a second because it’s still so early.
His bed.
His sheets.
The vintage headboard. I had absolutely no trouble falling asleep last night, after lying on my stomach at the foot of his bed, watching him throw the last of his things into a suitcase.
We snuggled on the couch after that.
Took a hot shower.
Climbed into bed and passed out.
The fresh mountain air will do that to a person . . .
I scratch at my arm—then my thigh—then the back of my knee, huffing out my frustration.
Beside me, there’s a rustling of sheets. He better be awake.
“Please tell me you’re scratching too,” I mutter, clawing at my ankle like a lunatic. “I want to scratch my skin off.”
Harris moans from his pillow. “I didn’t want to say anything, but yes. I think my ass is on fire.”
I turn my head to see him dragging his foot up and down the mattress, trying to get relief without using his hands. It’s both ridiculous and endearing—and erotic, because we’re both completely naked.
And covered in poison ivy.
“Oh no,” I say, smothering a laugh. “You’ve got it too.” I roll toward him, tugging the sheets around me. “Do you think there’s any calamine lotion here? Or, say—an entire tub of hydrocortisone?”
“Bathroom cabinet,” he says. “I’m going first.”
He bolts out of bed, scratching his abs on the way, another hand on his butt cheek, itching.
I stare at the ceiling, wondering if it’s possible to actually claw one’s skin off and if I would, at this point, welcome the relief.
My entire body is on fire.
Every inch of me—from the delicate arch of my foot to places I really shouldn’t admit out loud (vagina, cough cough)—is consumed by an inferno of itch!
I whimper louder. Impromptu forest sex was supposed to be romantic! Woodsy! Sexy!
Instead, I’m a human petri dish with welts in places no welts should exist.
I hear Harris’s expletive from the bathroom. A thud. More curses. The medicine cabinet doors opening and slamming.
“Are you okay in there?” I call weakly, nails biting into my elbow for relief.
“I hate this!” he complains. “It itches so fucking bad!”
Tell me about it.
More banging, followed by “How am I supposed to sit on a plane like this?”
Don’t know. Don’t care.
I have problems of my own!
My butt itches. My stomach itches. My rib cage itches. What fresh hell is this?
Glancing at the nightstand, I grapple for my phone. I reach for it, unlock it, and google: Can you die from poison ivy?
The search results are not comforting.
Harris returns, his hot, naked body half covered in pink splotches of calamine lotion; he looks like a walking strawberry milkshake.
“Your turn,” he says solemnly, tossing the bottle onto the bed. I grab the bottle and give it a shake to activate the ingredients.
Harris raises his eyebrows. “Need help?”
I blink at him. “Help with what?”
He grins, bending down to swipe his boxer shorts from the floor. “Rubbing it over your tits.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling and snort. “I am not asking you to rub lotion on my boobs.”
He grins wickedly. “But I’m volunteering as tribute!”
“So? I’m too itchy to let you touch me—even if the sight of you makes me horny.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling on his underwear. “Why Lucy—that’s the most romantic thing a woman has ever said to me.”
I laugh, pop open the bottle, and apply it liberally to my right arm, rubbing the thin lotion into my elbow and down my forearm. I groan, trying to twist and reach that impossible spot between my shoulder blades.