Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Come here and look at this.”
I set a shoebox of toiletries on the ground and then peer over his shoulder.
Unknown: The term peacock only refers to male birds.
“What the hell?” I ask, laughing.
A slow smile splits his cheeks. “I’m not sure.”
“Did you donate to an animal sanctuary or something?”
He scoffs. “Come on. Do I look like the kind of guy who donates to an animal sanctuary?”
“I don’t know,” I say, teasing him. “You did just buy a dozen baby chickens yesterday.”
“Ha. Wanna know what I bought today?”
I grimace. “Do I?”
“I bought Jess a shirt that says Chicken Dad,” he says, snickering.
“He’s going to kill you,” I say, laughing too.
His fingers swipe across his screen. “He’d have to catch me first.”
I peer over his shoulder.
Banks: So, what’s a girl peacock? A peavagina?
He chuckles and puts his phone in his pocket. The weight of the device tugs his waistband down a bit farther.
My body temperature skyrockets. I blame it on the sun. But, really, it’s the proximity of the top of his shorts to the top of his pubic bone that has me panting.
I’ve sat on his lap, so I know just how muscled Banks is. He’s all man, sex on a freaking stick, and how I’d love to trace my hands over his body.
Sex with him would be mind-blowing. I could imagine being on my knees, ready to take his—
“You ready to eat me?” he asks, picking up the box.
My head jerks up. What? I gasp. “Eat you?” How could he read my mind?
His brows pull together as he leans toward me. “Are you ready to eat?” He enunciates the words slowly. “Food. You know, dinner?”
“Oh, yes. Right. Yup. Ready to eat dinner. Let’s go.”
He looks at me over his muscled shoulder and smirks.
Breathe, Sara. Breathe.
12
Banks
I hate sheep.
Why do people say to count sheep when you can’t sleep? Does that really work for anyone? I’ve started counting them a hundred times tonight. That’s what I should’ve counted—how many times I started counting.
Every time I see the little white fluff balls hopping over a black fence, they smile at me. Then I smile back. Then I wonder what their names are, and why some of them have on bow ties and others little ribbons on their ears. And then I begin to wonder if they have a sexy-as-hell woman in a bed across the house from them …
Fuck. Now I have to start all over.
I punch the mattress with both hands and groan.
My elbow hits my phone, and the screen lights up. It’s late, but not that late.
Not late enough that I can’t text my sister.
Me: Hi.
It takes a couple of minutes before she replies.
Paige: Hi, Banksy. What are you doing up so late?
Me: Oh, just counting sheep. How far do you get before you get sidetracked?
Paige:
I grin.
Me: Yeah. Somehow that devolved into 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.
Paige: Where did you even hear that?
Me: Where do you think? JESS.
Paige: Sounds about right. How many sheep did you get to tonight?
Me: Seventeen. I made friends with number seventeen. His name was Rick. We got into a conversation about wool and then I had to restart.
Paige:
Sara. That’s what’s wrong with me.
I roll over onto my side and stare at the door.
Why do I want to fight with her and make her laugh at the same time? How is she in my house, in a bed I own, and I’m not touching her—yet, the thought of someone else touching her makes me want to hit something? Hard.
I know the answer. It hit me while we were eating ice cream from plastic cups—because I apparently don’t have any bowls—and watching Speed. It was the only movie we could agree on. We’re both big Keanu Reeves fans.
The issue at hand is that I don’t mind her being here. Actually, I kind of like it.
I kind of like her.
She’s entertaining and funny. The way she points out the smallest things in a movie is fascinating. Having her here made the night go faster, and it was definitely more exciting. And she’s so beautiful.
It makes little sense on the surface that liking her makes it more difficult to fuck with her, but it’s true.
Thanks, Mom, for the conscience.
A part of me doesn’t want to play into her fucked-up views of men and relationships. Not all guys are jerks that want to treat her like she’s a piece of ass. I’m not willing to do that. I won’t.
Sara deserves someone to treat her nicely, to take their time, and earn her trust. To get to know her. To hear what she has to say and learn what she likes. To make an effort.