Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Dressed in nothing but his shirt, he has a full view of my legs. My collar bone. The top swell of my breasts. And Jake Swagger doesn’t just flick his eyes over my body. He drags them heatedly over every inch bared to him. He might be angry, but there is no mistaking that he is a man who likes what he sees.
As he should.
I’ve been killing myself at the gym. It’s about damn time somebody notices. And who better to notice than my That Guy?
His attention settles on my face. “Do I know you?” He tries to place me. Like maybe he’s seen me before. There’s only one reasonable explanation to that…
“You probably know me from Saving Forever. It’s a book I wrote years ago. I’m kind of a big deal author. I mean, I haven’t written anything in a while, but I still have fans and a bunch of followers on social media. I did a podcast once. Back in like, 2014.”
“No. I don’t know you. Is that my shirt?”
I frown down at the pizza sauce on his shirt. I lick my finger then scrub at the stain. Damn scary movie…making me drop shit.
While I’m scrubbing away, That Guy turns on his heels and disappears up the stairs without a word.
I glance at the wide open front door. It would be a good time for me to bolt. But I really want to sniff him and see if I can put a name to his scent. I’ve come this far in my research. No point in quitting now. Besides, if he really is That Guy, he’ll feel sorry for me and we’ll fall madly in love before he has a chance to know everything I’ve done.
I’m folding the blanket and throwing it over the back of the couch when he comes back down the stairs.
“You went through my house?”
“What?” I snort laugh—something I always do when I need to kill time to try and think of an answer. “Um. No.” I twist my fingers in the hem of my shirt and avoid eye contact. “I mean. Not really. Hey…” I tilt my head to the side and meet his gaze. “What’s really behind that locked door? Are you a dominant?”
He doesn’t admit it, but when he straightens to full height and his hands fall from his hips and fist at his side, I know.
And I swoon.
“How did you get in here?” He doesn’t ask. He says it in a way that lets me know that he’ll strangle me to death if I don’t tell him.
“Well, it started when I accidentally got into the wrong car.”
“MotherFUCKER!”
He explodes and I stand in silence as he picks up his phone. He shouts to someone to get up here now, hangs up and dials someone else. It must go to voicemail because he tells that person to call him back.
He places his phone in his pocket and his eyes land on the bag.
The one I left on the counter.
He starts to pick it up.
“I wouldn’t—“
He gives me that “shut the hell up” glance. I think his eyes are more of a dark gray. Or green. I should get closer. Or keep my distance considering he’s holding the bag now.
Putting it close to his face.
Sniffing it…
“Is this…”
“It’s dog shit.”
He drops the bag as if it’s poison. He composes himself, clears his throat and wipes his hands on a towel he retrieves from a drawer. “Is there a reason you have a bag of dog shit on my bar? The bar where I fucking eat?”
“Wow,” I breathe, shaking my head back and forth in awe. “You have a really nice voice. So controlled and deep. You should be a narrator.”
“Why the fuck would you put a bag of shit on my bar? Are you out of your goddamn head?” So much for controlled…
“Dude.” I hold my hands up. “It’s just dog shit. You don’t have to be such an asshole. Some people would run through the streets of Chicago during a blizzard for that very bag of dog shit.”
He might explode again.
You know how in romance novels the heroine always just “knows” the hero would never hurt her? Like she can sense it about him or something? I’m looking for that in him. Not real sure I’m finding it.
The door opens and we both turn to find a middle aged man dressed in a suit and a hat like those limo drivers wear.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Swagger?”
Mr. Swagger. That name really does fit him.
He points a long, manicured, possibly skilled, finger at me. “Ross, who the fuck is she?”
Ross looks at me, then back at Mr. Swagger. “Miss Sims, sir?”
“Do you really think this country bumpkin, hillbilly hick could be Miss Sims? She doesn’t look like Miss Sims. She doesn’t sound like Miss Sims.”