Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I ogle his naked body.
Bracing myself on one elbow so I can watch his retreat, my eyes scan the bare flesh he presents me with—the firm squatter’s ass. The thick thighs. The angel kisses.
I appreciate how firm he is everywhere.
His broad shoulders. The defined muscles of his deltoids. My gaze skims Andy’s body.
How did it not occur to me that he might be an athlete the first time we were in bed together? Seriously. Was I not paying attention? This man is so fine—like a Greek sculpture, he looks carved out of marble.
My mouth is practically watering.
Maybe I do want that third round after all.
I flop back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling for a few moments, listening as he fumbles around with the shower handles—no doubt trying to figure out how to turn on the hot water—then listen as the water begins its rhythmic beat against the white ceramic tiles.
I hear him step inside, his feet squeaking on the shower pan.
I smile, burrowing in my down comforter for several seconds. Then, after lying here too long, I throw the covers off, dropping my legs over the edge of the mattress, feet touching the carpet.
I stretch my arms over my head. Turn to the left. Turn to the right.
“Ahh.” Life is good.
Then, just as I’m about to stand, the phone on the bedside table begins vibrating violently, the FaceTime lighting it up, and a familiar face I’ve never met—but have seen on magazine covers—fills the small screen.
My heart stops.
Palpitates.
Andy’s phone is ringing, and it’s Paisley Blue who’s calling.
I stare at it while it vibrates, horror filling my gut.
Why is she calling? What possible reason could she have?
Unless . . .
Oh my God, have they been in contact the entire time he and I have been talking?
Shit, shit, shit! What if they are? Were? What if . . .
I gawk at the phone as it rings and buzzes, loud reverberations that echo against the tabletop, Paisley’s gorgeous model face beaming from an image of her in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, angel wings spanning out around her as she struts in underwear.
I look over at the navy blue granny panties that were tossed on the floor earlier by Andy; my sensible cotton briefs have never felt so uncool and unsexy.
Granny panties, Harlow? Seriously?
But anyway, back to the phone. Why in the world would Paisley be calling Andy?
Was I nothing but a fling? A boredom buster? A . . . a . . . what do they call that, when you break up with someone or they break up with you and you immediately date someone else?
A Rebound!
Is that what this is?
I’m working at not being an insecure asshole, but Rome wasn’t built in a day—and he told me before we had sex that they didn’t speak.
So why is she calling? It feels too coincidental.
It has my mind whirling.
It’s also too much for my nerves to handle at the moment! Way too much for me to handle, and suddenly, I want my dad! He’ll know what to do. He’ll know what to say—he always does.
Andy’s phone stops buzzing but not for long. Several seconds later, Paisley tries calling again. Back-to-back phone calls? Really? Calm down, honey; he’s in the shower, and guess what?
You can have him!
Sobbing, I cross the carpet and bend, picking through the clothes on the floor, and scoop up my pants, panties, and shirt.
Whatever excuse he’s going to have for her calling, I do not want to hear it.
Not yet.
Not right now.
I need to think.
And I cannot do that here.
Chapter 32
Andy
Fact: Harlow did not join me in the shower.
Fact: Nor is she curled up in bed when I step out of the shower and crane my neck to stare into the bedroom, eyes scanning the room for her feminine form.
Confused, I towel off, wrapping the terry cloth length around my hips, knowing how sexy it looks and that chicks love half-naked men.
I pose, posturing so Harlow can admire me.
But she’s not in her bedroom.
“Harlow?”
I stick my head out the door and call to the kitchen, thinking she must be there. Living room?
Negative, Ghost Rider. My calls are met with silence.
“Harlow?”
Her house isn’t big—like, at all—finding her should not be this difficult, and Kevin is here, which means she didn’t randomly up and decide to flee, and she did not take little dude for a walk. She is also not standing in the yard watching the dog use the bathroom.
So where the hell is she?
I stalk back to her bedroom, where I discard my towel on the floor as I bend to snatch my boxer briefs from the carpet, stepping into them—then my pants.
My phone buzzes.
Without hesitating I grab it, but the notifications take me aback—one notification from Big Steve . . . and four missed video chats from Paisley.