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)
“Tell me to stop,” I say softly, searching her eyes. “If this is too much, if you don’t want this, tell me now, and I’ll walk away.”
But she doesn’t say a word. Instead, her hands tighten around my neck, pulling me closer, her eyes shining with a mix of determination and something deeper.
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispers, and the words hit me like a punch to the chest.
I kiss her again, slower this time, savoring every second, every taste. Whatever comes next, I know one thing for certain—I’m never letting her go.
But reality comes crashing back in. I shouldn’t be doing this.
Fuck. I step away and run my fingers through my hair. “No, we can’t...” I broke the one major rule I have for protecting someone. Never mix business and pleasure.
I couldn’t help myself, but still. I should have drawn a stronger line. One with more definition and boundaries.
I shouldn’t have touched her.
It was just too hard to resist.
“We should probably head back,” she says, moving away from me and back toward the house.
“Tory, wait,” I call after her. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I never let that happen with the people I’m protecting. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says with a small smile. “We’ll just pretend it never happened.”
Oh, but it happened. It fucking happened. And there’s no way I can pretend it didn’t, no matter how hard I try.
I grab The Hound of The Baskervilles from the coffee table, my favorite Sherlock Holmes book, and settle into the armchair across from her. I find my place from earlier and let the familiar, suspenseful prose pull me back in.
The room is quiet except for the occasional clink of her tools against metal and the soft rustling of the pages as I turn them. It’s a peaceful kind of silence, the kind that feels natural, not forced. I like this between us—her working on the sofa, me reading in the chair. It’s a glimpse of what a future could look like with her, and the thought surprises me.
But I like it.
I really like it.
I catch myself glancing at her more often than I should, watching the way her brow furrows in concentration, the way she tilts her head slightly as she examines her work. The way the light catches in her hair and makes it shine like gold.
I set my book down on the small end table beside me, the story suddenly unable to hold my attention. My thoughts are too focused on her, on us, and on the quiet comfort of this moment.
I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees as I decide to ask her something that’s been nagging at me. “What is your father discussing that people wouldn’t like?”
Tory sets her jewelry tools and the piece she’s working on down carefully, turning to face me. “Ways to use modern technology to feed people,” she says simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What’s so bad about that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She sighs, her shoulders rising and falling with the motion. “People usually fear what they don’t understand.”
No truer words have been spoken. I nod, letting that sink in. “I guess that makes sense.”
“They feel it will make the food harmful,” she continues, her voice tinged with frustration, “but if they’d just listen to my father, they’d see he naturally synthesized plant reproduction.”
“That sounds complicated,” I say, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
“It is,” she admits with a faint laugh. “But it’s also brilliant because it would mean more food at a quicker pace. We could feed a lot of starving people in the world.”
The passion in her voice is unmistakable, and it makes me smile. She’s not just brilliant; she cares deeply. About people. About the world. It’s rare, and it makes her even more incredible in my eyes. “I hope so,” I say honestly, and I mean it.
For a moment, she studies me, her gaze searching my face as if trying to figure something out. Finally, she asks, “What about you? What’s your family like?”
The question catches me off guard. I wasn’t expecting her to turn the conversation to me, and for a second, I’m not sure how to respond.
I lean back in the chair, my hands resting on my thighs as I think about how much—or how little—to say. “It’s just me and my sister now,” I start, keeping my voice even. “Our parents passed away when we were younger.”
Her face softens, her blue eyes filling with a quiet sympathy that makes my chest tighten. “I’m sorry,” she says softly.
“It was a long time ago,” I reply, brushing it off like I always do. “My sister and I looked out for each other, though. I try to see her when I can.”
“That must be nice,” she says, and there’s something wistful in her tone.