Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
I nurse my coffee, replaying every detail. The way he said my name. The brush of his arm against mine at the counter. The almost-smile when I confessed to my coffee addiction.
For the first time since he moved in, I feel like I’m getting somewhere. Like I’m starting to figure out what’s going on behind that bulletproof exterior.
It’s possible that I am way, way out of my league here.
But for the first time in forever, I want to see how far I can push it.
CHAPTER THREE
HUNTER
It’s just after six am when I step out onto my postage-stamp-sized balcony with my coffee. The sky is the color of a healing bruise, edges pinking up as the sun creeps above the neighboring roofline. I lean on the railing, already cataloging the day’s to-dos, when movement catches my eye in the next unit over.
It’s her. Iris. I’m so fucking obsessed.
A whole month in this building, and she’s all I think about. Every goddamn day. She’s in my dreams, my mornings, haunting every empty second. I can’t shake her. I don’t want to.
She’s on her own balcony, half a dozen potted plants crowding the cement, hunched over them with her hair pulled up, and her entire body swaddled in some kind of floaty blue thing that swishes around her ankles.
She crouches down, elbows resting on her knees, and gets this ridiculously earnest look on her face. I watch, totally shameless, as she pokes her finger into the dirt of a tiny jade plant and then literally starts whispering to it. No joke. I can actually hear her voice carrying over the rail, all soft and coaxing, like she’s encouraging the little guy to get his shit together and bloom already.
“Come on, Jasper,” she says, tapping the side of the pot. “You’re so close! I believe in you. Just one new leaf for me?”
She moves on to the next plant, a leggy basil that looks like it’s seen some shit, and keeps up the pep talk. I can’t look away.
She’s got this basil plant between her hands like she’s cradling a kitten. “You’re a survivor, Barry,” she whispers, her lips curving into a smile that absolutely ruins me. “Just because Karen next to you died doesn’t mean you have to give up. You’re not a quitter. You’re strong. You’re loved. You’re…” she scrunches up her nose adorably, “extremely floppy, but we’re working on it.”
She coos to the goddamn plant, and the sound skates across the space between our balconies, straight into my bloodstream.
I’m not sure if she’s so engrossed in her plants that she doesn’t see me or if she’s ignoring me. My coffee cup is trembling in my hand, and I’m not even pretending not to stare.
She tucks a curl behind her ear, totally focused on her plants. Goddamn, she’s glowing. The morning sun hits her face, and she looks like something out of one of my goddamn fantasies. Motherfucker. I want her. Bad.
I’m standing there with my coffee, morning wood pressing uncomfortably against my fly, and I can’t stop looking. Every time she bends, the robe thingy parts, and I catch a hint of bare ankle, the curve of her calf, soft skin that looks like it would taste like vanilla and honey, and the kind of sunshine that’s just for her.
I’m not a creep. At least, I didn’t use to be. Now I’m that guy, staring over the balcony like a peeping Tom, obsessed with the girl next door talking to her fucking plants. I try to remind myself why this is such a bad idea. Why she’s a bad idea.
She’s too young. Too bright, too soft for somebody like me. I’m old enough to know better and jaded enough not to care, or at least I thought I was. I’ve always loved my quiet, solitary life. Until I met my new neighbor. Now, I can’t even remember the last time I wanted anything the way I want Iris. There’s nothing about me that deserves her—all sunshine and laughter and sugary sweetness.
She needs someone closer to her own age. Someone gentle and not so set in his own ways. Somebody who can hold a conversation like a normal human being, instead of barely grunting out two words before wanting to devour her.
I’ve always loved my peaceful, quiet, and solitary lifestyle. Or, at least, I did until I met Iris Gardner. Now, I have no idea what I really want.
I should keep my distance. I really, really should.
But fuck, I know that’s never going to happen.
She glances over and spots me. “Good morning, Hunter!” she calls, and her silky voice cuts right through me.
I nod, the way I do with the guys at the station, a chin-lift that says, “I acknowledge your presence.”
“Plants are looking good,” I say, and immediately want to bash my own skull in for how stilted it sounds.