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’m trying to be nice. Since it’s Christmas Eve. Now hush your mouth and let me paint.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Up go his headphones, but he’s still grinning and casting glances my way.
I try to ignore him. But oh, it’s hard. Because he’s big and intense and smells like pine—and he’s kind. So who wants to climb him like he’s a giant Christmas tree?
Surprise, surprise. It’s me.
The end of the day comes early and hits me hard. By the time I’m out of the shower and dry my hair, my entire body is dragging. Reed’s taking his own shower when I finally crawl under the covers…where I lie awake, shivering and utterly exhausted, but with my brain in the grip of nervous anticipation. Because although there won’t be any kissing until tomorrow, the blood rushing through my veins apparently can’t tell time. Add in the knowledge that he’ll soon be in bed with me, there’s no hope yet of sleeping.
Then he comes out of the bathroom, and the blood in my veins says the time should be now. Right now.
Because he shaved. Shaved. I’d bet five bucks that he usually lets his beard grow wild when he’s at the cabin. But instead he shaved his jaw smooth. As if he’s planning to do something with his face soon and doesn’t want his stubble tearing up delicate skin while doing it.
I’m not sleepy anymore. I might never sleep again. I know Reed won’t go back on his timeline. Not when he’s worried about taking advantage of me. Nothing will happen until tomorrow.
But he’s preparing for something to happen. And I can’t tell him that my body is already ready. I wouldn’t mind torturing him, but I don’t want to torture myself.
Watching him is torture enough. Wearing only pajama pants, he makes his way around the cabin—checking the stove, throwing more wood on the fire, flipping the deadbolt (as if another abominable snowman will find his way to the door.) The flickering firelight dances over his skin as he returns to the bed, illuminating his rough hairy body and his hard smooth jaw, turning every part of him into a delicious play of textures and angles, light and shadow.
Maybe he assumes I’m already sleeping, because he doesn’t say anything before climbing in. I’m lying on my side facing the center of the bed, watching as he settles back against his pillow and closes his eyes. Not even a glance in my direction.
Well…fuck him.
I screw my eyes shut. Everything’s quiet.
Then out of nowhere he says, “Next time, I’ll make you laugh.”
Which makes me laugh. I try to stop it, burying my face in my pillow. Too late.
“YES!” Reed crows, coming up onto his elbows. “I win our battle of skill and wits.”
It takes me a second to remember what he’s referring to. Of course I can’t give an inch. “That’s only in a fight with friends. Not enemies.”
With a disgruntled “Dammit, Abbie,” he flops back down and turns onto his side, arm cocked and head propped on his hand, biceps flexed, eyes narrowed. “After everything you learned today, why do we still have to be enemies? None of your reasons had any solid factual basis.”
“You did say that shit to Harris.”
“You forgave me.”
“Did I?” I’m trying so hard not to smile.
“Yeah, you did,” he says confidently. “And not that it made any difference, since he knew I was being a dick and hired you anyway. What do you do for him?”
“I’m the Director of Community Engagement and Development.” I say the job title like a grand pronouncement before adding, “Which just means I’m in charge of the organization’s messaging and social media—and finding new avenues for donations. Though I don’t have to do the face-to-face fundraising myself, thankfully, because I’m not that personable.”
“Because you’re too blunt? Or because you like making enemies out of perfectly harmless men who interrupt your solitary holidays?”
“Probably the first.” And he’s got me smiling again. “I do develop the talking points for the others to use while they’re fundraising, though.”
“So, marketing.”
“That’s what my degree is in.”
His brows draw in, as if he’s contemplating a puzzle. His eyes search my face through the flickering darkness. “And do you enjoy that? Marketing?”
“I do. I like figuring out what makes people interested or invested, and working out how I can convince others to care. But mostly because it involves so much graphic design—which was my other major.”
“Ah,” he says, as if something clicks into place. “And the painting—is that something you do professionally or just for fun?”
“I have a side gig. That’s what I’m working on here. But it’s not for the money, because there’s not much money in it. I just enjoy it,” I say, then sigh.
Reed’s beginning to read me too easily, because he asks, “But not enjoying it lately?”
“Not at home, no. I’m told how pointless and silly it is—and that I’m not good enough to make a career of it, so why bother?”