Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 99(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 66(@300wpm)
Moonpie stakes out her perch on the sofa and starts snoring like she doesn’t have a care in the world while I sort my laundry pile, which has achieved critical mass since finals. I stare at it for a good thirty seconds, debating whether I should just throw the whole thing away and start over. Honestly, it might be easier. There are so many socks in here that don’t have matches, I start to wonder if Moonpie’s been secretly building a nest behind the couch. Wouldn’t put it past her, honestly.
I brace myself and plunge both hands into the Mount Everest of laundry. I don’t know if there’s an actual bottom to this basket, or if socks just breed in the dark. Either way, I’m in too deep to turn back. I pull out a pair of leggings I haven’t seen since before midterms, then a T-shirt with a suspicious stain. Ew. That one’s getting rewashed.
Moonpie watches my efforts with all the judgment of a bored aristocrat. I dig deeper, unearthing a bra I really liked and thought I’d lost forever. Victory! I add it to the “actually worth folding” pile. My heart races when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I take a deep breath and pull it out.
Detective Hottie
I’m just getting home. I’m going to grab a couple hours of sleep, then I’ll be down to get you. Is five good with you?
Damn. He’s been up all night and still wants to go out with me. My heart melts in my chest.
Me
Are you sure you’ll be up for it?
Detective Hottie
I’m so fucking up for it. See you soon.
I sit on the edge of the bed and fan myself. If this man keeps texting me like that, there’s no way I’m making it to dinner without combusting. I need to pull it together and focus, but all I can do is picture Jack’s hands, those broad shoulders, the way his voice rumbles through my chest when he calls me kitten. Holy. Shit. I’m in so much trouble here.
Moonpie hops up on the bed and immediately plops her generous ass onto my clean laundry pile. Figures. “You’re no help at all,” I inform her, sweeping a hand over my flaming cheeks.
While she slowly licks her paws, I try to distract myself by folding the rest of the laundry, but it’s impossible. Detective Jack Vale is officially taking up all the available space in my mind.
The next few hours disappear in a blur of folding, sorting, and wrestling with fitted sheets that refuse to cooperate. By the end, I’m sweaty, victorious, and completely convinced that laundry is a full-contact sport. I stare at the chaos in my apartment and realize it’s not over yet. If laundry is a battle, then cleaning my apartment is World War III. I fly around the room, scooping up stray socks, wiping every single surface, and scrubbing the kitchen sink until it actually gleams. Hell yeah. I handled that like a pro.
Every second that ticks closer to five pm, my heart beats faster. I race through the living room, grab the vacuum, and get rid of every single dust bunny. Moonpie watches the show from her perch.
I finish up and check the time. Damn. I have an hour to shower and make myself presentable. “You can do it,” I mutter, stripping off my sweats and jumping under the hot spray.
I swear, this shower is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. The water is so hot it almost scalds, and I stand there way longer than I should, letting the steam fry my brain cells into something resembling actual human energy.
I wash my hair twice and shave my legs, since no-shave November was over months ago. By the time I drag myself out and towel off, my skin is a little pink and my hair is a full-on lion’s mane. God. I have a lot of work to do in a really short amount of time.
I throw on my comfiest robe and try to tackle my curls with the detangling spray I blew way too much on last semester. I spritz, scrunch, repeat, and finally wrangle it into something that looks “intentionally messy” instead of “possessed by demons.” Then I haul ass to the closet and stare at my limited options. I grab my favorite black sweater dress and tug it on. The hem hits mid-thigh and clings in all the right places. I smooth it over my hips and try to ignore the nervousness coursing through me.
At four fifty, someone knocks, twice—sharp, authoritative raps that send my heart ricocheting against my ribcage like a pinball. I force a deep, calm breath that does absolutely nothing to slow my pulse before my trembling fingers twist the knob.
Jack fills the doorframe, broad shoulders nearly touching both sides, with his phone clutched in one large, veined hand. The second our eyes meet, he slides the phone into the pocket of his perfectly tailored navy dress slacks. His dark hair is still damp at the temples, and he smells like clean cedar mixed with something spicy and warm. His scent wraps around me like an invisible embrace. His deep-blue cashmere sweater clings to his chest and shoulders, revealing the outline of what has to be the result of religious gym attendance, and the color makes his eyes look like twilight over a deep forest. I actually forget how doors work and just stand there for a solid three seconds.