Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 474(@250wpm)___ 395(@300wpm)
“No, you did the right thing,” he says, walking across the room. “She’s safe with her.” He sits down beside me and I notice a big bruise on the side of his thigh.
“What happened?” I ask, pulling back the leg of his gray shorts to get a better look.
“Got hit at work. It’s fine. Just a bruise.”
“You look like you just got home from the gym,” I point out, my curiosity piqued.
He laughs. “Well, I did get a workout in tonight. That’s for sure.” And by his tone, I know he’s done talking about it. I can’t question him on it as it’s not my place. Even if he went to the gym after work, there’s no harm in that. God knows he’s giving every other hour of his life to us. “You staying up for a while?”
I yawn and shrug. “I don’t know if I can sleep. I tried to while I waited on you to get home . . .”
“You waited on me?” he asks cheekily.
I shrug again, my cheeks heating. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.
“Let me grab a shower and a bite to eat. Then maybe we can watch a movie or something?” His gaze is heavy, his voice controlled. The combination makes my stomach flutter.
I can only nod.
He smiles in return and heads to the shower, and it’s only when he disappears down the hallway that I take a deep breath. The smell of his skin, his sweat, is thick in the air. It’s overwhelming in the very best way, in total contrast to the overwhelming odor of antiseptic and disease at the hospital.
Crew’s in and out of the shower in a flash. I hear the microwave kick on in the kitchen and before I know it, he’s walking back in the room. He has on a pair of black sweatpants and is carrying the plate of food I left him.
He’s shirtless and his body takes my breath away. Lean and toned beyond belief. His ab muscles ripple with every step, his shoulders rigid and strong. His arms are cut without flexing.
I spy the tattoos I know exist. There’s an “M” for Minnesota on his right shoulder and “Ma” written in script over his heart. “Gage” is on his right forearm in block letters, and “GENTRY” is written boldly across his back. It was his first tattoo.
He sets the plate on the table in front of us and collapses back onto the couch, wincing.
“You all right?” I ask, watching him move his right shoulder around.
“Yeah. Just a little sore, that’s all.”
My hands itch to touch his skin and a thread of guilt starts to spool in my stomach. I’m pushed and pulled, guilty for feeling and needing to feel . . . human again. A feeling of something other than sadness, responsibility, helplessness. For just a moment, I want to be a twenty-something girl without all the baggage I tote everywhere. I feel guilty for that, too.
I pull my gaze away.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I laugh shakily because the hell if I know. Even if I am okay this second, the way my life goes, I may not be in the next. My life is a series of unpredictable events aimed at wearing me down.
“What does it matter?” I ask, more to myself than him.
He tips my chin gently so I’m looking straight at him. “It matters. It always matters to me.”
“When did you start being so nice anyway?” My heart pounds, sending red-hot blood bursting through my veins. His fingertip sears my chin, yet when he lets his hand fall, I crave its return.
I’m immobilized by the weight of his stare, held in place by his gaze. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away, although I know I should.
“When you let me.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“You’re the strongest person I know,” he says simply. “You just take everything thrown at you and keep on going.”
I laugh at the ridiculousness of what he’s saying. “Yeah. I’m strong all right.”
“You are, Jules. The strongest people aren’t the ones that walk around, flexing their shit. The strongest people are the ones that fight the battles no one sees. You amaze me.”
“What I do is survive. There’s nothing amazing about it.”
“You sell yourself short.”
We sit in comfortable silence and I notice his focus is on something far away. “Do you remember the day we met?”
“Um . . .” Whatever I expected him to say, this wasn’t it. “Yeah. Of course. Why?”
“We saw you and your friends walking around that morning. I think it was actually Gage that saw you first. He wanted to go talk to you, but I sort of nipped that in the bud. I said, ‘See the one in the black swimsuit? She’s mine.’”
My mouth falls open. I had no idea.