Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
I’ve never felt this way before. Not even close.
Every time his dark, smoldering eyes lock onto mine, I lose the ability to breathe. My thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind, leaving me speechless and flushed. It’s embarrassing how obvious it must be.
What’s worse is, I think he knows.
Ranger is nothing like Chris or any guy I’ve ever known. Chris was awkward, scrawny, and sweet in a way that made him feel safe. Ranger, on the other hand, is pure danger wrapped in a body so perfect it defies reason. He’s tall, broad, and muscled in a way that seems impossible. His voice is deep, a rumble that makes me shiver every time he speaks, and when he’s close, the air seems to shift, charged with something electric.
And it’s not just the way he looks. It’s the way he moves, the way he watches me, the way his mere presence fills the room. There’s a confidence about him, a quiet strength that makes me feel simultaneously safe and completely unraveled.
I try to distract myself, to focus on the necklace I’m making, but my hands shake too much to keep going. I set the pendant down on the coffee table and let out a soft sigh.
Ranger shifts slightly in the doorway, his gaze never leaving me.
I bite my bottom lip, trying to steady the fluttering in my chest. If just one look from him does this to me, how am I supposed to survive being around him every day?
The logical part of my brain knows I should focus on staying safe, on getting through this ordeal without letting my emotions—or my hormones—get in the way. But every time Ranger is near, logic goes out the window.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to analyze it. I just want to feel it. I return to my work, focusing on the pendant.
He must think I’m a twit, the way I mumble random, nonsensical things every time he looks at me. Every time his dark eyes flick in my direction, I lose my train of thought, babbling about crystals or some obscure scientific concept no one cares about.
Let’s face it—Ranger isn’t interested in science girls like me. He’s probably traveled the world, experienced more than I can even imagine. He’s had women—countless women—fall at his feet, because any man who looks like that is bound to.
He’s tall, but not intimidatingly so. Just over six feet, the perfect height that doesn’t make him tower like a skyscraper but still makes him feel solid, unshakable. His body isn’t overdone—he’s not one of those beefed-up bodybuilder types who can barely move—but his muscles are hard, compact, and powerful. He’s built for action, for taking down threats with precision.
Then there’s his jaw, strong and sharp, framing an enviable set of lips. Full, perfectly shaped lips that I can’t stop staring at, no matter how hard I try. Lips that I know—just know—would know exactly what to do with me. Unlike Chris Henderson’s mouth, which had all the finesse of a science experiment gone wrong, I’m sure Ranger’s would be devastatingly skilled.
Not that I’d know what to do in return.
But looks aren’t everything, right? Personality is an important scientific factor. And wouldn’t you know, Ranger’s got that too. He’s funny, with a dry sense of humor that sneaks up on you. He’s patient—at least with me—and he’s caring in a way that feels genuine, not forced.
I enjoy being around him. Crave it, actually.
I peek up from my work to find him sitting on the sofa now, a book in his large hands. At some point, he moved from the doorway, his quiet strength filling the room without a word. He’s leaned back, legs spread slightly, completely at ease, as if the plush couch was made for him. His fingers are wrapped around the spine of the book, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along the edge as he reads.
The ache that settles low in my belly is immediate and undeniable. I can’t stop imagining those big hands of his, strong and rough, working their way over my skin with the same careful precision. I clench my thighs together, trying to banish the thought, but it lingers, hot and unwelcome.
It would be a novel experience, that’s for sure. Chris Henderson’s awkward fumbling in the name of “experimentation” no longer counts in my mind. This… this would be something entirely different.
I bite my lip, focusing intently on the Tanzanite crystal in my hand. My fingers tremble slightly as I try to attach a delicate metal clasp, the motion far more challenging than it should be with my current state of mind.
My gaze flicks up to him again, just for a second. He’s still engrossed in his book, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The way the muscles in his forearm shift as he turns the page shouldn’t be attractive, but somehow it is.