Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
I strike gold in a bottom dresser drawer. Sweatpants and a thermal shirt that’s a smidge too tight, but Harris won’t care if I stretch out the cuffs. There’s nothing to put on my feet, but the wool socks in my snow boots are dry and thick.
The fire’s next. I toss wood onto the embers. It’s still fucking freezing. I haul a quilted throw off the back of the armchair and wrap it around my shoulders. The same way I remember seeing Abbie do yesterday.
Nothing from the bathroom yet. She’s got to be cold in there. She’s wearing nothing on her legs or feet.
Hot Biscuit Slim sits by a little silver dish and glowers at me.
“Sorry, bud.”
Abbie said something about a special diet, so I won’t make the mistake of feeding him anything. I search for the coffee, instead.
I’m filling up the moka pot when Abbie appears again. She doesn’t look my way. Just quickly pulls on her pajama pants and thick socks. Over it all goes her fuzzy robe.
Without a word, and still not looking at me, she crosses over to the cat’s dish, fills it.
So it’ll be up to me to break this silence. “Coffee’s on.”
“Thank you.” Now she turns in my direction but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. She gestures vaguely toward the bed. “If you can just forget—”
“It’s forgotten.” I’m lying. “You rolled in your sleep, I rolled in my sleep, and there’s not much room in that bed. It wasn’t intended, yeah?”
Her sheer disbelief in response to that question seems to blast away any lingering embarrassment. “Of course not. I’d rather cut off my arm.”
Ouch. If I suffered from an overinflated ego, one conversation with Abbie Walker would cure me of it. “Then it’s a good thing we were just mindlessly rolling around all night. A bloody stump of an arm might ruin your perfect Christmas.”
She stares at me, her lips compressed. I suspect she’s trying hard not to laugh.
So there’s my new purpose in life. I intend to make Abbie Walker laugh. Though that might be too ambitious, considering how long she’s despised me. Maybe just a smile.
But I’ll settle for her wet pussy all over me again.
And I need to hold that thought, because these sweats don’t hide a damn thing. But when I turn back toward the stove, it’s my limp that catches her attention.
“Did I hurt your leg worse? When I—”
“You never even touched it.” I cut her off, not liking the guilt shadowing her eyes. “It’s actually better. Still hurts like hell and I wouldn’t want to poke it, but it’s overall better. Now, what are your thoughts about breakfast? You cooked for me yesterday, I’ll cook today. But it’s your food.”
“I usually eat later. Coffee first. Then toast or an orange.” Her brow furrows. “But you must be starving. You barely ate yesterday.”
“I could do with something.” That’s an understatement.
“Then most of the breakfast stuff is here.” She brushes past me to open a cupboard, bringing with her that sweet scent again. Maybe from her shampoo. She’s bound her glorious mass of hair into two braids, as if she washed it just before bed. “Potatoes are over there. Eggs and bacon in the fridge. Sausage in the freezer.”
I’m still looking through the cupboard and concealing my body’s reaction to her scent and her nearness and those braids. “You weren’t kidding about having enough food for the both of us. You stocked up.”
“My vacation is for two weeks. But Harris said I might be snowed in for even longer, so I brought extra. And since this holiday was a chance to cook what I actually like to eat, I loaded up on stuff I wanted. Or might want. Hence the breakfast stuff, even though I usually don’t eat much for breakfast.”
My attention snags on one part of that. “You usually don’t cook what you like?”
Her expression goes stony. For a second I think she won’t answer. Then she says stiffly, “I mean that I only had my own preferences to consider.”
“Lucky for me, then. Because judging by this cupboard, we have similar preferences.”
She scowls. Apparently not thrilled by the thought of us having anything in common.
The gurgling of the coffee pot saves her from having to reply—or saves me from her reply. She takes her mug to sit in front of the fire.
Feeling as if this whole morning has been like getting struck by a lightning bolt—or maybe just another tree branch—I spend a few seconds staring into the cupboard and trying to recover. Soon enough, though, my stomach reminds me that I’m starving.
I pull out the pancake mix and can barely focus on the directions. That’s not Abbie, distracting me. My brain aches while trying to make out the blurry words.
Fuck. This is the last thing I need. But I suppose as hard as I whacked my head, it might be a few more days—hopefully not weeks—before I can read without my brain disintegrating.