Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87804 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Good for you,” he grunts.
Grrrr.
“This place was bleeding money.” Up, down. Up, down. “But since you took over it’s been in the black.” Up, down, up, down. “With a profit margin of twenty-five percent.” Up, down. Up, down. “Noah!”
He finally stops and drops to his feet, his face dripping with sweat, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. A glaring game ensues. It lasts all of two minutes. Which is when he decides that a towel is far more interesting than me, staring at it with the intensity a towel does not deserve.
While he wipes his face and neck, my innocent eyes are lured down to his chest, to the black t-shirt sticking to every glorious curve of his chest. This is what they mean by eye candy.
Don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook.
Despite that this man should be totally off–limits to my eyes, they’ve been going a little rogue on me lately. What can I say? It’s a sickness I caught the day I rode up on that banana seat bicycle. Chronicfuckwitsyndrome.
“If you would stop being a jerk for two minutes, I could tell you that what you did with the properties is nothing short of amazing––” I say to his nipple, which, hand on a Bible, is giving me come-hither looks. “Even the new lease you negotiated with the county is twice as profitable as the last one.”
His pecs flex. His nipple winks at me.
Ignore the nipple. Don’t look at the nipple.
“Rowdy trusted me.” That’s all I get in answer. He’s really turning on the charm now. I may not survive it.
“I can see why. You’re really good at it.” More uncomfortable silence happens. Along with a lot of sweating on his part and inappropriate leering on my part. A cough draws my gaze up. His mouth quirks. Dang, he caught me.
“Did you always sweat this much?”
“What?”
He looks confused. Good. I have been made a fool by this man my entire life. I refuse to let that happen again.
“Don’t be afraid to take a shower. Water is your friend.” This time I get a narrow-eyed glare. Point, set, and match. In the privacy of my mind, I chest-bump myself. “What I came here to tell you is that Rowdy left me a tidy sum, thanks in part to your amazing work turning the properties around.”
Interest flickers on his face for the first time since I walked in. This gives me hope that maybe we can move on past the grumps to make this situation a bit more tolerable.
“What if…”
“Yeah?”
“We use it to make any improvements, reinvest it to grow the business?”
For a moment his eyes dance, on the verge of excitement. And then his face goes abruptly flat. “We? You’re leaving, remember.” He turns his back to me, walks over to a small refrigerator, and retrieves a bottle of water out of it.
I am incredulous.
“What is your problem?” I say to the seductive swell of his ass. “Seriously. You’ve been unbearable the entire week. Is it something I said? Because if it is, let’s have it out.”
He exhales harshly, irritation ringing loud and clear.
“I’ve run everything on my own for the last five years…Go home, Maren. We’ll manage fine without you.”
“Come on––” I groan, at a loss at how to speak to him anymore. Speaking to him used to be as easy as taking a breath of fresh air and just as fulfilling. Now all it is is frustrating. “Noah…Noah––”
“I gotta go. I need a shower––I’ve been told.” After that, he stalks out.
* * *
As soon as I walk up the steps of what is now my house, I see my food fairy has delivered dinner. Cracking open the thermo bag, I am greeted by the perfume of filet mignon and greens. My stomach somersaults.
This right here is the problem. Random acts of kindness are not allowed under the current terms of our relationship or lack thereof. He’s supposed to stay firmly on the total jerk side of the line he drew between us a week ago.
I have half a mind to march over there and demand to know what he’s up to but in my current mental state I’m liable to chew his face off Hannibal Lecter style instead of thanking him as I should.
Grabbing the bag, I push through the front door, and without pausing, head straight for the kitchen and unload my dinner on the counter. I am starving.
Bless that jerk face.
I grab a dish, utensils, and take a seat.
Fork poised near my mouth, I’m about to eat when my phone rings. The tone, London Calling by the Clash, tells me it’s Oliver.
Food or man? The age old question.
I stare at the screen, trying to decide whether to answer it or eat. It’s usually an easy choice––food. Except we’ve spoken twice since our argument the other night and both exchanges were chilly and brief so I should probably pick up.