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)
How he’d earned this punishment with Lottie, he did not know.
Maybe it was beating the shit out of his sonuvabitch dad.
Yeah, that had to be it.
He followed her back into the kitchen and she did her thing, in her nightie, while he watched, and it was while she was sautéing the mushrooms, and he was taking a sip of coffee, when she asked, “What do you think about my tits?”
He nearly did a spit take.
To avoid that, he swallowed hard, not like he was swallowing coffee, like he was swallowing a boulder, and he stared at her.
She was at the stove, wooden spoon in her hand, but twisted to look at him. “I’m going natural. Next month.”
He tried not to look at her tits.
Swear to God he did.
He couldn’t not look at her tits.
He then forced his eyes to her face.
He knew her tits had to be fake.
Still, they were fucking awesome.
“Your body, your choice.”
“Do you think I’ll lose customers?” Do you think I’ll loth cuthtomerth?
Christ, she was too much.
He really should not have beaten the shit out of his dad.
“No.”
“That’s what I think.” She turned back to the stove and fussed with the mushrooms.
“You want me to make you coffee?” he offered to have something to do that was not looking at her ass, her legs, her hair, her neck, her tits or her at all.
“Yeah. By the time it’s done, strips will be about ready to come off. Splash of cream.”
He moved to where he’d seen she kept all the stuff for coffee.
It was done brewing and he was sliding her mug on the counter by the stove next to her when he made mistake number five in his job protecting Charlotte McAlister.
“You don’t need the strips, the goo or the tits, Lottie,” he told her.
There was more to that message, he just didn’t verbalize it.
She was beautiful and would be beautiful without all that shit.
She got the rest of his message and he knew it when her head slowly turned, tipped back (and then back some more) and she stared into his eyes looking shocked AF.
“You gotta know that,” he continued.
And she did. For shit’s sake, her living was her looks and her body.
“Maybe,” she said in a sweet voice that played all kinds of havoc with his crotch. “But it’s nice to hear it.”
“Just sayin’,” he muttered, moving away from her again.
She turned to face him. “You want toast?”
If she was going to ask him to make it, and it meant getting close to her again, the answer to that was a big, fat no.
“No.”
“Good. Bread is bad,” she declared and shifted her attention back to the stove.
If she thought that, did she even have any?
He’d learned therefore he didn’t open his mouth to ask.
Mushrooms done, she got rid of her whitening strips right there in the kitchen before she started on the omelets, all this while the fresh potato hash browns from a bag were sizzling in olive oil next to turkey sausage.
Mo was a doer so he couldn’t stand still for long.
This meant he got out the plates and cutlery, opening and closing doors and drawers to find it, and brought them to her.
She served up and he took his plate and fork all the way (which wasn’t a long way, and that sucked) across to the opposite counter from her.
Lottie put the sole of her foot against the ankle of her other leg and tucked in at the counter.
Mo did the same, without the foot action.
“So which branch of the military were you in?”
“Army,” he muttered, shoving omelet in his mouth.
Well, hell.
It tasted good.
That took chops, making an egg white omelet taste good.
“How long?”
“Full term.”
“Did you, uh…see some action?”
Mo turned his head to her, got a load of legs, nightie, tits, hair and a pretty face with a hesitant and earnest expression on it.
And he’d had enough.
More than enough.
He wasn’t playing this game and it was seriously fucked up she was trying to make him do that.
He was done.
“We’re not doin’ this,” he announced.
“Mo—”
“No,” he clipped. “And rules. You put some goddamn clothes on while I’m with you. I know this is an inconvenience and you know I’m gettin’ paid to do this job. But have some respect and cut a man some slack. You know precisely how fuckable you are. Every night, you dance, and you got a huge room full of men gagging for it. Do you honestly need that in your kitchen?”
The look on her face made him wish he could net the words that just came out of his mouth and set them on fire.
She blanked it right before she retorted, “I think I prefer Quiet Mo.”
“Great. I prefer that too. So let’s do that.”
“Fine,” she spat.
He dipped his chin.
She picked up her plate and took it to the apron-front sink which was two feet in front of him. She then dumped the whole thing in it, hardly eaten omelet and the rest sliding off onto the white enamel.