Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“Are you even listening to me?”
Creed freakin’ Daugherty.
Jesus, the man was lethal.
Tall, broad, and so damn male it made my teeth ache, he was the literal epitome of my dream man.
He had sandy-brown hair, pale-green eyes, and a bushy beard that covered what I knew to be a very strong jaw.
He walked like a predator, too.
Every time that I was in his vicinity, I felt like a damn weakling compared to him. It was as if his masculine energy swallowed all the air in our shared space.
“I’m trying,” I lied. “How’d you get in here?”
“Your locks are absolute shit,” he said. “You should probably replace them with something more secure. All it took was a credit card to get in. Do you not have a deadbolt?”
Jesus, now he sounded like my dad.
He’d taken one look at the place and said, ‘This place isn’t safe.’
Not that I had anything to argue with him about. I mean, the place was old. They didn’t make security-conscious houses back in the twenties. The windows were all drafty. The back door could be kicked in with a swift wind. And the doors to the balcony upstairs didn’t even lock because the owner had lost the key. The same went for the deadbolt downstairs.
“I don’t have the key to it,” I admitted, my brain feeling fuzzy. “So it’s just a habit not to lock it.”
He grumbled something unintelligible, and I opened my eyes to see the lights lining the street shining through my windows bouncing off the sharp angles of his face.
Creed was drop-dead gorgeous.
He was also so freakin’ hot that he was light years out of my league.
He was the type of man that you saw on the covers of magazines at the grocery store, staring at you to the depths of your soul.
“What are you doing here?” I finally asked, my mouth dry.
Seriously. The man was potent.
Just the idea of him being in my house seemed incredibly erotic, and he wasn’t here for anything but to make sure I wasn’t dead.
“I came here because you weren’t answering the phone, and I didn’t want you to die in your sleep,” he admitted.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “You can go now. I’m sorry for not answering.”
He scoffed. “I’m not leaving if you say you’re dizzy when you stand.”
I felt my eyes drift closed again. “Then stay here, but since I’m fairly sure I’m not moving from this spot anytime soon, the only other place you can sleep is on my bed. Feel free to use it.”
He tilted his head. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
I shrugged. “Then I guess your only other option is a kitchen chair.”
“I could carry you,” he suggested, albeit reluctantly.
I snorted. “I’m perfectly fine right here. I even have a blanket.”
I pulled said blanket from the back of the couch and covered myself with it.
A hint of aftershave hit me, and a frown of confusion marred my face.
It smelled like the aftershave my stepfather used.
Weird.
“You don’t have a blow-up mattress or anything?” he asked.
“No,” I grumbled into the blanket, my nose wrinkling.
It really smelled.
As in, overly.
And since I’d never been super fond of my stepfather, or his aftershave, I kind of wanted to throw the blanket off of me.
But that would’ve required effort, and I didn’t have any of it in me to give at that moment in time.
“Come on,” he said as he walked toward me. “I’ll get you back in bed.”
I started to protest, but there didn’t seem to be a point.
“What’s your damage with me sleeping out here and you sleeping in the bed?” I asked when he lifted me off the couch.
Without, might I add, a grunt of effort.
See, this was what I wanted.
A man who didn’t have any trouble lifting me.
I was small and curvy. I looked like I would weigh less than I did, and every boyfriend that I’d had always teased me for being “dense.”
Every. Last. One.
It was a hit to my ego every time someone that looked strong picked me up and acted like I weighed a million pounds.
“I’m not super big on taking a girl’s bed and leaving her to the couch,” he said as he carried me into my bedroom and straight to my bed. “Where’s all your furniture?”
“Don’t have any,” I said. “Furniture requires money. And seeing as all of my money is currently going to paying off student loans that I took out, I’m currently in short supply of it right now.”
Which he very well knew.
Though, admittedly, he might not have known about the student loans.
“Didn’t Apollo fix your credit?” he asked.
I frowned. “Why would he do that for me?”
“Because he did it for your sister?”
I ignored that.
Just because my sister had friends in high places, didn’t mean that I did.
I would never ask anyone to “fix my debt.” I was too proud for that. “But these are loans I legitimately took out for my schooling. They’re not ones that my mother had a hand in.”