Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
I try not to overthink it, but there’s a dangerous warmth spreading through me. “Well, I get it. As a dog-sitter for four wild Chihuahuas, I’m a rare breed.”
“You must be protected at all costs,” he says, flashing me a playful smile as we start walking toward his house.
The warm fall air carries the faint scent of saltwater as I glance toward the sparkling bay, glimmering by the Golden Gate Bridge. “God, I’m not going to mind this view for the next week or so,” I say, taking in the shimmering water.
“The balcony on the second floor is perfect for a cup of tea in the morning,” he says. “You’ll love it.”
“Oh! Great idea. I need to pick up some green tea—I didn’t bring any.”
“You don’t need to,” he says, his grin widening. “I already stocked up on your favorite.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “How did you know my favorite tea?”
“I asked Birdie what you always get.”
The pride in his voice is obvious, and honestly, he deserves it. My heart does a little flip as I look at him. “That’s...really thoughtful. Thank you.”
“Of course,” he says, like it’s no big deal. But it feels like a big deal. A small part of me wonders if this is just a thank you for taking care of his mom’s dogs. Another part knows better when he says, “I want you to have everything you want.”
My heart stutters. It feels like this isn’t just for me as the dog-sitter. It feels like it’s for me as me. I clear my throat. “Thank you, Miles.”
His eyes swing toward me as we walk, a spark flickering in them. “And since you’re such a rare breed…there’s pasta in the fridge—sun-dried tomatoes, artichokes, all the good stuff. I made it for you this morning. So it should be pretty fresh. Just heat it up when you’re hungry.”
“You made pasta?” I stop in my tracks, turning to face him, because it’s more than just pasta—it’s the meal that never happened.
“You never got to try it over a year ago,” he says, holding my gaze for a long beat. Heat thrums through me. “Trust me, I’m a phenomenal chef.”
The warmth in my chest turns into a full-on blaze. “I can’t wait.”
A minute later, we’re walking through his front door, and my mind is spinning. The tea, the pasta, the way he showed up at the bus stop—it’s like he’s orchestrated this little world where everything is easy for me while I stay at his home to help him.
As much as I want to say I can do it all myself—I can buy my own tea, make my own dinner, carry my own bags—I don’t. Because for once, I don’t feel the intense, driving need to prove my independence. Before he opens the door, I impulsively reach for his forearm.
His jaw tightens when I touch him, like he’s at war inside.
“Miles,” I say, and his name comes out warm, breathy even.
“Yes?” His voice is strung tight with desire, but I don’t let go of his arm.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“No, thank you. You’re helping me.”
I curl my hand tighter, my thumb sliding softly across the hair on his forearm, tracing the arrow tattoo on his fair skin. “We both know you’re the one helping me.”
He dips his head, swallows roughly, then raises his face, blowing out a soldiering breath. “Come inside.”
When he opens the door, it feels like I’m stepping into something entirely new between us. But the moment evaporates as four small, barking hurricanes barrel toward us, and they have a lot of opinions.
An hour later, Miles is upstairs changing into his travel suit, getting ready to head to the team jet. He’s already given me the lay of the land and a litany of instructions for my charges—all of which I plan to follow religiously. He showed me their heated dog beds—he calls them their hot tubs—then sent me all the details on their food, on Boppity’s meds, and the code for the front door, as well as the location of the security camera. It’s in the living room, and he turns it on when he leaves in case he ever needs to check the interior of the home while he’s away. “I’ll make sure I don’t walk naked past it,” I said when he showed it to me.
“Or make sure you do,” he replied.
But that’d be trouble, so I won’t. Besides, I don’t generally parade around anywhere naked, so it’ll be easy to keep my clothes on.
He showed me his scotch collection, telling me to feel free to have some. I stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Things that will never happen,” I said. “I’m convinced scotch is espresso’s cousin. Meaning it is also vile.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m going to pretend you never said that.”