Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 66859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Beckett returns about half an hour later and nods to Riggs.
“We’ll get everything you need and bring it out here,” Remy informs him. “Got a watch round the clock, too. She won’t be escaping again.”
“Oh,” Beckett says, his voice firm. “I know.”
Douche.
“Calm down, boys. You’re all acting like you’re actually worried about little old me,” I say from the kitchen. “I’m just a dumb girl, remember? What could I possibly do?”
None of them answer, but I’m met with some pretty intense looks.
Remy and Riggs leave, and I’m left with Beckett who doesn’t say a word to me as we piece together the machine and get everything back in working order. He’s pissed about staying out here with me, and my god, I’m going to make sure his time spent will do everything to drive him crazy. Oh yes, he’s going to wish he didn’t hold me captive out here. I can be really, really god damned annoying.
“How are you going to catch up with your little girlfriend now?” I mutter, switching the printer on.
“Don’t talk to me, Poppy.”
“God you’re childish. We have to live together out here, you can’t not talk to me.”
“Can’t I?” he growls, glaring at me.
“Whatever, Beckett. I can’t wait to meet her.”
He gives me a look that could kill, as always, and I make my way into the kitchen to make myself some food. Beckett continues to ignore me as I feed myself, sing, dance and clean up the warehouse. He literally acts like he can’t see me.
God.
Bikers are something else.
Really, truly, something else.
BECKETT IS SLEEPING soundly on the sofa, his arm behind his head, his eyes closed and his face relaxed and lacking his usual scowl. It’s a shame I can’t stand here and admire him for long, because he really does look gorgeous when he’s at peace like this. It’s almost as if you can see the gentle man that must live somewhere beneath the surface.
Oh well.
Pity I don’t care.
I lean down and pull the cord for the leaf blower that I use to blow the concrete in this warehouse. It won’t stay clean otherwise and they didn’t exactly give me many things to clean it with. So, I use this to get the dust and dirt out and keep this space clean.
It powers up with an angry roar and in this steel framed building, it’s damned loud.
Beckett launches upright off the sofa, his eyes sleeping, his face twisted with confusion as he tries to figure out what the hell is going on.
“Morning,” I say cheerfully. “Just blowing the dust out.”
I blow a puff of dust right past him and he starts coughing and spluttering, launching up from the sofa to wave his arms around as he tries to clear the air. Then, in all his shirtless glory, he snatches the blower from my hands and launches it across the warehouse. It skitters across the ground before powering down a good five yards away.
“What was that for?” I gasp, horrified. “I need that.”
“You want to play, Pop-Tart?” he growls. “I’ll play.”
With that, he storms off toward the bathroom.
Yeesh, men are so moody in the morning.
With a happy smile, I go about making breakfast for myself as he showers. It’s only five minutes into his shower that he barks my name out angrily and comes storming out in a towel, hair dripping and hanging around his shoulders. God damn, man looks good after a shower and I can’t help but think about how viciously he fucked me only days ago. God, I could use some more of that.
“What is it?” I ask, batting my lashes innocently.
“Where. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck. Is. My. Shampoo?”
I purse my lips. “What shampoo?”
“The fuckin’ expensive shampoo I use for my damned hair.”
I snort. “Men shouldn’t use expensive shampoo, sounds wrong.”
“Poppy, I swear to fuckin’ god I’ll lose my shit. Where is it?”
“Hmmm?” I say, rubbing my chin and looking up as if I’m thinking long and hard about it. “I did do a clean out this morning. I threw a heap of shampoo away, must have been yours. Sorry.”
“Mark my words,” he barks, pointing a finger at me. “You’ll pay.”
“Have a wonderful shower,” I call after him.
He goes back in and comes out in another few minutes, hair towel dried but still wet. He takes a brush and starts angrily pulling it through the unshampooed, unconditioned mane of hair he has. It takes him a long time with a lot of curse words to manage to get it semi-normal. I have hair, I know exactly how painful it is to brush wet hair that hasn’t been washed and conditioned.
Oh well.
He storms past me, opening the fridge and pulling out the egg carton—he opens it to find one single egg. He spins and glares at me as I stuff a piece of my three-egg omelet into my mouth. Of course I could have only used two, leaving him two, but, well, no thanks. I smile at him as I chew.