Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
What can I say? It’s complicated. I’m complicated. She’s complicated.
An owl hoots in the distance as I toss the trash into the can. The nighttime quiet out here is one of my favorite things. Aside from the crickets, frogs, and occasional birds, there’s an almost unnatural stillness.
Which is why the sound of a stick snapping in the distance may as well be gunshot.
I freeze in place, my eyes laser focused in the direction the sound came from. Just like the other day in town, I can practically feel someone watching me, their imaginary eyes an unwanted physical caress. It makes me skin crawl.
“Anyone there?” I holler, wishing like hell I was armed. “Make yourself known.”
Aside from the owl in the woods and the rustling of the leaves, there’s nothing. Complete and utter silence.
I scan the backyard thoroughly before making my way around the side of the house, and then to the front. There’s nothing. No footprints, no shadows, not a single thing out of place.
“It was probably a deer,” I mutter, scanning the tree line one last time before heading back inside, determined to put all of these ludicrous thoughts—of someone lurking in the shadows and all of the weirdness with Scarlet—behind me.
Inside, the house is quiet, and the kitchen and living room are both still empty. So, naturally, I lock the doors, front and back, and then creep down the hall toward James’s room.
Why am I creeping? Who the fuck knows, but I’m committed at this point.
The door’s cracked open enough that I can see them while staying out of sight. She’s in the rocking chair with James cradled to her chest as she softly pats his bottom while reading to him. Goodnight Moon, a gift from me, thank you very much.
I don’t know why the sight of her reading a book I purchased chaps my ass, but it does. Everything about her does. She’s like… a fly. Annoying as fuck, always in your face. You know, if a fly had great tits.
“Oh, sweet little love.” Her voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it as she talks to him. “You’re such a perfect little angel. Let’s get you tucked in, yeah?”
That’s my cue…
I take off down the hall, unwilling to be caught lurking like a creep. Fuck that. Scarlet would have a field day with it, and I’d never live it down.
Dishes. I bolt into the kitchen and start rinsing the few plates and cups in the sink, before loading them into the dishwasher.
Rookie move, because with my back to the hall and the sound of the water, I don’t hear her coming. A blessing and a curse, because, good god, nothing could’ve prepared me for the sight of her dressed down in her pajamas, if you can even call them that.
If I thought her black sweats and crop top earlier were tempting, the sad excuse for shorts and a tank top she’s calling clothes right now is downright sinful.
A swimsuit would cover more.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks, looking at me like I have three heads.
“Why are you damn near naked?” I return, through gritted teeth.
Her brows furrow as she glances down and then back at me. “What in the hell are you talking about? I’m completely covered.”
“Covered?” I toss my wet and soapy hands in the air, sending droplets of water everywhere. “I can practically see your ass.”
She scoffs and crosses her arms, pushing her tits up, which really only proves my point. “Pretty sure you’re projecting, you know, since you’ve been showing your ass all night.”
Fucking hell, it’s like she’s trying to kill me. Is death by lingerie a thing? It has to be.
“Projecting?” I whisper-shout, angry but unwilling to wake James. “You look like you’re about to walk the damn runway at the Victoria’s Secret fashion show!”
“Holy shit,” she whispers, her cheeks taking on a rosy glow as she bites down on her bottom lip. “You’ve lost the plot.”
“What does that even mean?” My eyes stray from her face, from where they’ve been glued to her lush lips, roaming down the contours of her body.
I usually prefer my women on the softer side. Short, curvy, and sweet is what usually does it for me. But here’s Scarlet, slightly taller than the average woman, fit as hell, with just a hint of curves, and a tongue sharper than any blade, and, I can’t look away.
“I’ll tell you what it means.” She drawls, advancing me until we’re toe to toe. Well, as much as we can be when I’m still in my well-worn boots and she’s in fuzzy slippers. “I am standing here, fully dressed… fully covered, and you’re acting like I’m walking around in my birthday suit. You. Have. Lost. The. Plot.”
She’s standing close enough I can smell her—hints of orange blossom and amber. It’s… intoxicating. I can’t stand Scarlet Armstrong on a good day, but right now, in the dimly lit kitchen, I’m thinking things I have no business thinking. Like if her skin is as soft as it looks… if she tastes as sweet as she smells.