Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
The homeless man’s eyebrows twitch in question over the unexpected truth bomb.
Okay, where were you?! Why didn’t you stop me from letting that out?! He didn’t need to know that!
“Anyway, my point was, the space heater out here actually makes this entire place feel pretty hot. Just as hot as inside the house. Definitely much warmer than…out there. So…um…what do you think? Wanna crash here?”
Yeah, yeah, what I’m doing is a little insane, but I can’t just throw him back out there. Fuck that. I won’t just throw him back on the street with no place to go. No way to stay warm. Nothing to protect him from the fucking sleeting out there. Look, the last thing I want is for him to catch pneumonia or hypothermia or frost bite or one of the other million weather related illnesses my mother has been lecturing me to wear my coat to shield me from since I was four. He needs somewhere real to sleep tonight. He could die if I sent him back out there. And I don’t want that. I don’t want that at all.
For the first time since we’ve met, the homeless man finally speaks, proving that he is indeed capable of it. “Why are you so nice to me?”
Fuck me, even his voice is sexy?!
Deep.
Firm.
Gruff.
Ugh, how is that fair?!
Hm. No. No, I didn’t just say sexy. I said…Okay, well I meant…you know what. That’s enough out of you for right now.
The retort I offer back is done with a soft grin. “Why not?”
His head immediately cocks to one side as if the question broke his brain.
Maybe it did.
And if it did, perhaps that’s the bigger issue than my willingness to help out someone who desperately needs it.
And yes, before you ask, if he were a woman, down on hard times, in need of food or shelter or momentary shielding from the Little Twat That Could next door, I would do the same thing. The fact that he’s attractive – you have eyes! – is just a weird, unexpected bonus.
Mr. Green Eyes does his best to relax in the moment.
To not fidget with the straps of his tattered backpack.
To not shift his weight.
Shuffle his feet.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is still littered in shock. “You’re really not afraid of me.”
The fact that he says it as a statement instead of a question causes me to smile wider. “Nope. There’s no reason to be.”
Mr. Green Eyes’s expression shifts to one of scolding.
“Pizza Dude, my dad’s a police lieutenant – if you couldn’t tell by my interaction with the two officers out front – and my mom’s a thoracic surgeon, which means I have the capability of stunning you, cuffing you, and then carving out your organs to donate them to science because Operation in my house wasn’t a game so much as a monthly study session on the human body and how to create a foolproof alibi.”
The smirk that slides onto his face sends the dormant butterflies in my stomach into a full tizzy.
“Truth bomb incoming.”
Intrigue rips through his stare.
Has his body lean forward, anxious for more information.
More knowledge about me.
“I’ve taken several self-defense classes – enough to basically teach one myself – am always packing some sort of protection on my person – knife, pepper spray, dog whistle – and sleep with a fully loaded Beretta at my bedside.” Folding my arms across my chest is done on a teasing beam. “Maybe it’s you who should be afraid of me.”
His chuckles are so warm they damn near cause me to break out in a sweat. “Maybe.”
You know he’s the first person outside of my family and book club since Chris’s death that I’ve wanted to be around for longer than five minutes? That means something, doesn’t it? Even if it shouldn’t. Even if it’s bizarre. Even if it’s unideal or illogical, it doesn’t erase the fact that it does. Or that it’s true.
I casually change topics to one that’s just as important as his shelter situation. “Have you eaten?”
“I had lunch.”
“Which was?”
He hesitates to answer; however, he eventually does. “Some crackers.”
“Crackers aren’t lunch, Pizza Dude. Crackers are a snack. And not a very healthy one according to the two page email my mother sent me about avoiding things that are so high in sodium due to their ability to cause bloating, heart attacks, and strokes.” The eye roll given is absentmindedly done. “The irony is that she is probably going to be what gives me the latter.”
Another small, amused smirk is shot my direction.
“You like lasagna?” Keeping hope out of my tone is impossible. “It’s not made from scratch or anything, but it’s still pretty good. Wouldn’t kick it out of bed for eating the aforementioned taboo crackers.”
My joke successfully receives another light laugh.
“How about I put that in the oven while you get settled?” A new wave of questions rushes over me. “Have you had a hot shower lately? Or just…access to hot water period?”