Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I put a peck on his lips, enjoying the power I have over him. “I just might, y’know.”
He squints suddenly. “What’s the second reason you brought me all the way out here? You only told me one.”
I lift another finger. “Reason two.” Then I put my hands on the car on either side of him, caging him in and bringing my face even closer. “You and I … have not yet had a proper date.”
He frowns. “The hell you talkin’ about? We’ve had tons of ‘em. All week. Last weekend. Every mornin’ when you force my sleepy ass to go jogging with you.”
“Not a romantic date,” I clarify. “You and I … we never had an actual first date. Where I get to take you out, wine and dine you, then go home and cross my fingers that your cute butt enjoyed it enough to go on a second date with me someday.”
He gazes back at me. I’m expecting him to make fun of my sappiness, but instead, my words seem to move him. “Shoot,” he mutters, lost in my eyes. “If I had known that, I would a’ put on a better shirt.”
“You look perfect.”
“I don’t even know if I remembered to put on deodorant.”
I go right into his pit for a voracious sniff, then bring my face back to his. “Pit check: complete.”
He stares at me awhile longer, appearing baffled. Then he lets out a chuckle and shakes his head. “You’re different tonight.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Different how?”
“I dunno. Look in a mirror. Shit. The version of you I first met two weeks ago, he would’ve never shoved his face into my armpit to check if I was wearin’ deodorant.”
“That a problem? I like how you smell.”
“I think you like more than just how I smell,” he throws back. “I think you’re fuckin’ smitten with me.”
His use of that word makes me choke. “S-Smitten?”
“Yeah, not just smitten, but fuckin’ smitten. I see how you look at me. Can’t get enough of me. Takin’ me out for a fancy dinner tonight. The second you got a taste last weekend, now you can’t get enough.”
“Speak for yourself,” I retort, coming closer to his face. “Every night this week, you couldn’t catch a wink of sleep unless we had sex. And even afterwards, you’re inconsolable unless I wrap you in my arms to sleep.”
“Inconsol—?” He scoffs at me. “I ain’t inconsolable.”
“So you’re just as smitten.” I go to kiss him but stop before my lips make contact, watching the surprise flicker on his face. “I like how you react to me. I like how I bother you. How I agitate you. I like the look in your eye right before I go in for a kiss …” Then I let our lips touch—a sweet, gentle kiss that begs for another. “… and I especially like the look in your eyes right after.”
“I got a look in my eyes?”
“And …” I smile. “I like the way you smell.”
I study the shift in his face, how he goes back and forth from wanting to say something sassy and challenging one second, then just wanting to melt into another kiss the next.
“Where’s the tight ass who looked down on me for drinkin’ all the time?” he finally asks, his voice soft.
“And where’s the guy who used to drink until all hours and could barely function in the mornings?” I ask right back.
“He’s still here. He just …” He shrugs. “… drinks responsibly.”
“Or … and this is just a theory …” I bring my lips right up to his ear. “Maybe you were drinking ‘cause you were unhappy. And I don’t wanna go take all the credit here … but maybe, just maybe, I have a little something to do with it. Just a theory.”
He snorts at me, turning his face slightly. “You think awfully highly of yourself.”
“Only around you,” I admit, put a kiss on his ear—he loves when I do that—then bring my face to his again. “And you ought to start thinking higher of yourself, too.”
“Why?” he asks. “For pullin’ the stick outta your ass?”
“Oh, it’s still there,” I assure him. “Someone’s gotta keep you in line.” I step back, releasing him from his pinion against the car. He gives me a look, twists his lips, then goes ahead of me toward the restaurant without a word. I catch up and smack his ass—he shoves halfheartedly at me, pretending not to love it—and the pair of us head on into the restaurant, my arm slung over his back.
With our track record, I expected two or three things to go horribly wrong. Maybe my dish would end up on my head. Or our table would magically explode into fettuccini alfredo all over our faces with no explanation. Or maybe our server would hate us.