Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
He’s so confusing. One minute, he’s being a jerk to me. Then, in a click of fingers, he’s being nice.
I’m starting to think he might actually have split-personality disorder.
I can hear him rattling around. Cabinet doors opening and closing.
Then, he reappears with a first aid kit in hand.
He kneels back at my feet and opens the kit up. He takes my foot and rests it on his thigh. He takes an antiseptic wipe out of the kit. How do I know it’s an antiseptic wipe, you ask? Well, I’m very familiar with the inside of first aid kits. The regular beatings and not being able to go to the hospital meant that I had to be.
“This will sting a bit,” he says.
“I can handle pain.”
He briefly glances up at me. The look in his eyes unreadable.
Then, eyes back down, he presses the wipe to my toe and gently cleans it up.
When he’s done, he tosses the wipe back into the kit and gets a Band-Aid. He rips it open. But he doesn’t put it on straightaway.
He takes hold of my foot and lifts it up. Then, he leans his face down and softly blows on my toe, drying the wet from the wipe.
Sweet Jesus.
I know I’m not supposed to feel anything. But I do.
Parts of me I didn’t know existed start to sing.
I’m getting turned on from him blowing on my foot.
It confuses and surprises me.
Pregnancy hormones and seeing him naked have fuddled my brain.
“There, all done.” He’s lowering my foot to the floor.
I didn’t even know he’d put the Band-Aid on; I was so distracted by what I was feeling. Or what I shouldn’t be feeling.
I shoot to my feet. His dark eyes follow me up.
“Thanks,” I blurt, a slight shake to my voice. “For fixing me up.”
Thanks for fixing me up?
Christ on a cracker.
I sidestep him. “Well, bye then.” I make a beeline for the still-open door that I came in through earlier.
“Where are you going?”
His deep voice catches my back, stopping me. I glance over my shoulder. He’s standing now.
“Home.”
“Your feet are bare.”
I thought that was obvious. You know, since he was literally just blowing on my bare foot.
Don’t think about it.
“Where are your shoes?”
I turn fully to face him. “I didn’t come in with any. I was in a rush.”
“Wear a pair of mine to go back in.”
I glance down at his bare feet. They’re huge. Just like his—
Annnd I’m bright red again.
“That’s not necessary, and they wouldn’t fit me anyway.”
But, clearly, he’s not listening to me because he’s turning away and walking back into the kitchen, where he apparently keeps everything, and then he returns moments later with not one, but two pairs of shoes in his hands. Boots and sneakers.
He puts the sneakers by my feet. “Put them on.”
Christ, he’s bossy.
Ignoring his order—because I no longer take orders from men—I watch as he pulls the boots on his own feet, leaving the laces unfastened.
“Why do you need shoes?” I ask him.
Dark eyes lift to mine. “Because I don’t walk the streets barefoot.”
Huh.
“Put the sneakers on, Red.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t want to.”
“You want to cut your foot open again? You’re lucky you didn’t on your way over here.”
How would I cut my feet in our gardens? Unless he has broken glass scattered around his. Wouldn’t surprise me.
“Fine.” I sigh. Then, I slip my feet in his sneakers. They’re massive, as expected. “I look like a clown.”
“You do look ridiculous.”
I scowl. “I never said I looked ridiculous. I said, I look like a clown.”
“Same thing.”
I don’t even bother arguing.
“Well, thanks for the loan of the sneakers.” Although I didn’t actually want them.
I turn back to the door when his voice once again stops me.
“You have something against front doors? Or just my front door?”
I eye him over my shoulder. “Just going back the way I came.”
“Ah, yeah. The gap in the fence. Never did get around to fixing that.”
Why? I want to ask. But, of course, I don’t.
He wouldn’t tell me anyway.
I head through the door, grabbing the handle to close it behind me. But he’s there, right behind me, in the doorway.
Letting go of the door, I step aside. “Are you going somewhere?” I ask.
His brow goes up, revealing his dark eye. “I’m walking you home.”
“I live right there.” I point at my house.
“And?”
“And I think I can make it there just fine.”
“You think bad things don’t happen to people, even in the shortest of distances?”
“No, I don’t think that.” I know for a fact they do. I wasn’t safe in my own home for seven long years. But I also don’t need a man looking out for me. I can take care of myself. “But I got over here just fine. So, I can make it back just as easy.”