Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
I turn away, both relieved and disappointed when he lets me go. My shoulders tingle from where he touched me, remnants of the closeness. I walk down the stairs quickly, sure I can feel his eyes on me. That’s nothing new. Ever since I walked into this house, I’ve felt his eyes watching me. It became achingly real after the gym incident.
“Wait.” He jogs after me, putting his hand on the door before I can yank it open. “I didn’t mean to freak out like that. I just don’t like the idea of you faceplanting and seriously hurting yourself.”
“It’s fine,” I tell mutter.
“No, it’s not,” he snaps. “I shouldn’t have freaked. It’s just—if I hadn’t been there…” he trails off with a shudder.
I don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe I’m not. Maybe that’s how it happens. I put my hand on his chest, feel his heart pounding against my hand, powerful thump-thump-thumps that reverberate through me. He stares at me, his expression difficult to read.
“I’ll be more careful, okay?” I whisper.
“Good,” he replies. “You’d better be… Let me get the door…”
As he leans past me and reaches for the door, his cheek brushes against my face. We’re so close to each other that I can almost taste him. Time seems to slow down as he turns and looks directly into my eyes. We’re barely inches from each other. He looks at me as if searching for something. But for what? Maybe he thinks this is all a setup, too, just like me falling down the stairs as if I’d hurt myself just to make him care.
“What are you thinking?” he whispers, moving even closer. Our lips are a hairsbreadth apart from each other. Each breath he takes has his lips nearly brushing against mine.
“Nothing.”
“You look pissed at me.”
“I just didn’t throw myself down the stairs on purpose. That’s all.”
His lip twitches into a captivating smirk. I almost reach up and touch his face, trail my fingers across his jaw, and feel the prickles of his slowly returning beard. “Okay, you’ve made your point.”
“I’ve never wanted anybody to save me,” I tell him earnestly. “I saved myself. Okay? Do you get that?”
“Yeah, I get that. But can you save me?”
“From what?”
“From you,” he groans, and it should be cheesy. It should make me cringe. If I read about this in one of my books, I might roll my eyes. It’s so different when I’m in the moment when I can feel his hand on my hip, his warm breath on my face, the heat in my chest, the desire emanating from him.
He finally takes that last step forward and crashes his lips against mine. It doesn’t last long, but I know that in my memory, it will expand, become three, four, five times the length. His lips are just the perfect texture: rough, manly, but not off-putting. He tastes freaking delicious. He kisses me confidently, but not aggressively, not as if he owns me. But when I moan, his desire begins to take over. He tightens his grip on my hip. I slide my hand up his chest and…
Then it’s over. It’s like we’ve both woken from a dream. I’m not sure who comes to their senses first, but he finally steps away.
A long time passes with us both just standing there. Then his expression changes, and it infuriates me. He narrows his eyes, looking at me as if to ask, Why did you make me do that? I almost scream at him. He’s the one who kissed me. But is that true? It feels like a blur. My lips are still warm from the contact. Other parts of my body are warm, too, as if tempting me to explore where else we could take this.
His look doesn’t change. If he wants to play the gaslighting game, I can also do that. I spent years having it done to me, after all. “Okay, well, thanks for the save,” I say with a slightly tight chuckle. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know if there’s anything specific I need to know about Emery’s schedule. If not, I’ll keep her entertained.”
A polite, fake smile replaces his searching expression. He nods. “Will do. Thanks for everything, Callie. Sleep well.”
Walking across the yard, I breathe in the cool summer air, but it does nothing to dampen the heat coursing through my body. I sit on the couch in the guesthouse, but then I stand and pace. I can’t sit still. I can’t think clearly, reasonably, or anything even close.
He kissed me. I want to scream the words. I can still taste his lips, still feel their heat. But it was so quick, and he went along with my acting after. It should be easy to pretend it never happened. Maybe if I were thinking straight, I’d find a way out of this job.