Total pages in book: 188
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 929(@200wpm)___ 743(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
But he definitely communicated.
And this was further demonstrated when he turned his attention to the foyer.
He was done in the kitchen, time to move on.
I didn’t move on.
“I like light, bright space.”
“Blinds closed,” he declared.
His voice was very deep. Not rough. Not smooth.
Just right.
Shit!
“I mean, I like bright space so that explains all the white,” I told him.
He didn’t care even a little bit about all the white.
His attention went again to the foyer.
“And I’m tidy,” I shared.
He looked to me.
Then immediately back to the foyer.
Okay then.
Time to move on.
I moved us on.
I took him along the short hall that contained the stairs to the study and TV room on the other side of the house (more closing of blinds).
After that, I took him up the stairs and into the guestroom, bathroom and my pole room where I practiced and choreographed (he didn’t bother with the shades in the guestroom, but the pole room was closed off for sure).
We then went into my master.
I was pretty proud of my house. You know, me buying it. Me gutting it (or hiring someone who did that). Me decorating it. All on my own. No help. No man.
The little stripper that could.
And the master was the masterpiece.
The two-side slanted ceilings of a Tudor upper floor. The diamond-paned windows that featured the window seat. The shelving around all that filled with my beloved books (yeah, strippers read) and stereo. The clean-lined lighting. The cool rattan rugs. The creamy tones of the couches and bedclothes, all this mixed with some warm orange notes in the toss pillows, because I liked orange.
Mo had no opinion on the color orange or the fact it was clear I read a lot.
Mo assessed the fact my tall, but narrow windows (all four across, with two square on top) didn’t have blinds and his mouth got tight.
“The bathroom has frosted windows,” I shared helpfully. “And there aren’t any windows in the walk-in closet.”
The bed was against the back wall.
He turned and looked down at me. “Do not go near those windows or the couches.”
My master was huge. I had a massive seating area for reasons that were mostly aesthetic, unless my nephews were up here messing around, which was usually right where they ran the minute they entered my house because it drove Jet crazy and my boys and me loved driving my big sister crazy.
Two couches faced each other over a coffee table made entirely of glass.
If I was in the mood, it gave me options for lounging and reading.
It gave Mo bad thoughts.
“I read a lot, Mo, and—”
“No window seat. No couches. Or we put up a sheet until this is over.”
I pressed my lips together and sucked them between my teeth.
A sheet would totally mess with my masterpiece.
“And you’re not in this room without clothes, ever,” he went on.
I let go of my lips and nodded.
“Not even just underwear,” he added.
That seemed OTT, considering.
“I strip for a living, Mo, and—”
“Not even just underwear.”
Okay then.
I nodded.
“I sleep on the couch.” And he tilted his head toward the couch.
Um…
Say what?
“I have a guestroom,” I pointed out.
“I sleep on the couch.”
“Won’t one of Hawk’s other guys—?”
“Just me.”
Okay.
Wait.
What?
“You’re not gonna…trade off or something?” I asked.
He shook his head.
Once.
I still got the negative.
“Well, uh…I don’t want to be telling you your job, but…is that the way it’s normally done?”
“Absolutely.”
It was?
I clearly showed my surprise because after I did, the Quiet Man gave me more words.
“Military. You train with someone. You bunk with someone. You breathe their air all day every day, they mean something to you. You could hate their guts and you’d still form a bond. They’re in it with you. They’re family. There are men…and women…who might rush into danger just to save a life. But there’s a big difference between instinct and already being in danger. Knowing your time could be up at any moment. And watching that grenade fall at your feet. Which is also at the feet of your brothers. Then throwing yourself on it knowing every man standing with you has the same exact thought to do the same exact thing because one might have to go, but that bond is so strong, you’ll die not to make the other ones have to break it.”
“You’re gonna need to throw yourself on a grenade for me?” I whispered.
“I need you to trust that I’d throw myself on a grenade for you.”
That was easy. I did that already. I mean, he was wearing cargo pants. And a gun.
And I could do it and he could sleep in the guestroom or have an afternoon off.
“I trust you, Mo,” I promised.
“You have no idea the meaning of the word trust, Ms. McAlister.”
“Lottie.”
He tilted his chin up this time.
“So, you have to sleep in the same room with me?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered.