Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Hmmm. Two things about that.” She holds up her fingers. “First, we stick to the details, and we act our hearts out. We don’t tell Nana one word about the business part of the deal. Call her old-fashioned, but she wouldn’t understand. She’d probably hunt you down and scramble your balls into a frittata or something.”
“Got it. I do like keeping my balls.” Though her grandmother may sense something’s up soon enough when Juniper starts remodeling with mystery money. “What’s number two?”
“You have to be…” She makes a face. “Serious about me.”
“I can handle that.”
“No, you don’t understand. Nana, she’s been wanting me to find Romeo for a while. And with work and everything else, that hasn’t been in the cards. Meeting you was a godsend. She was delighted—who knows why.”
Yeah, I could tell.
Five minutes with the old gal and her enthusiasm for me—or rather, what I could be for her granddaughter—was unmistakable.
“That’s fine. I’ll keep her in the Dexter Rory fan club.”
“She won’t make it easy for you—or for us. She’s sharp as a whip. Fooling her for an hour or more will be a lot harder than a few minutes in the Sugar Bowl.”
I hate how pale she looks, still sucking at her lip.
Does this chick stress about everything family related? And where are her parents? She never mentions them.
“Juniper, relax. We’ll be fine.” I watch the way she’s curled herself neatly into the corner of the sofa as far away from me as she can get. “You’ll have to get used to acting like a couple, and so will I. That’s all there is to it.”
Easier fucking said than done.
More red blazes appear in her cheeks, bringing out the lush green in her eyes. She’s hotter than ever and I hate it.
I hate everything about this self-inflicted stupidity I’ve thrown myself into.
“You can’t keep doing that,” I tell her.
“What?”
“Looking like a middle-schooler being thrown into her first dance with a boy.”
“I just—” She breaks off and buries her face in her hands. “Look, I’m not used to this, okay? This isn’t exactly in my comfort zone, either.”
Oh, hell.
Grabbing my phone, I put on some smooth jazz to break the tension. It blares from the speakers and Juniper looks up, the blush still written on her cheeks, her mouth slightly open.
Damn her for looking like every dude’s wet fever dream.
“Come on,” I say, standing and holding out my hand.
She blinks at me. “Um, what are you doing?”
“Helping you get over your cooties for the middle school dance. If we can’t reach a junior prom level of comfort, we’re boned.”
“Oh.” She swallows thickly as she takes my hand, her skin surprisingly cool against mine. “Got it.”
I haul her up and pull her into my arms. Closely.
So closely I can smell the floral scent clinging to her hair, something breezy and island-like, plus the nervous weight of her body against me.
Eventually we settle, and she rests her hand on my shoulder as we sway to the slow music.
Still awkwardly, but less so than before.
Goddamn, the things I do for money.
“Did you ever go to prom?” I ask, trying to ignore the fact that even though she’s still too stilted, I can feel her firm tits against my chest. She’s soft and delectable and very distracting. “You’re supposed to enjoy this, you know.”
“Prom was never really my thing,” she whispers back. “I was more of a giant dork into baking and books. Oh, and painting! When Nana had Sundays off, sometimes we’d spend the whole day parked in front of her easel watching Bob Ross.”
Figures.
“Move your feet, art dork,” I instruct her. “One between mine, the other on the outside. Okay, good. Now, see the way your hips move?” I drop my hands down to her waist to demonstrate where her body should be. “See how easy we can get closer without this feeling too awkward?”
Her face heats like a flaming cherry, but she’s actually smiling now.
That must count for something.
“Don’t tell me, you were a dancer in high school?” she teases, but there’s a breathy note in her tone that says she’s impressed.
“I have a wide range of talents,” I tell her. “And yes, I danced—one of the few things my mother insisted on. According to her, it’s a rite of passage for every young man to learn ballroom dance. She’s old-fashioned like that, I suppose. All part of being a Rory. Your heart belongs to the last century.”
“How’s this?” Laughing, she looks up at me with a small frown in her eyes and locks her arms around my neck.
“Better. More importantly, you’re moving with me like I’m not made of toxic waste. Progress.” I flatten my hand against the small of her back, drawing her in closer.
I’m greedier than I should be, tracing her skin with my fingers.
Her breathing picks up, but she’s still looking at me.