Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 720(@200wpm)___ 576(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
She’s totally expecting a fight. And it clearly freaks her out. Interesting, considering she did not back down before. Earlier, I’d started to wonder if she’d been following me, which is a definite turnoff. I don’t need a stalker on my hands. Except she’d sent me a warning glare in the produce section that had made me reevaluate that theory. No, this girl clearly wants nothing to do with me.
Her nose lifts as if smelling something off. Yet she doesn’t acknowledge me. Oh no, Button gives me her shoulder, her pale hand resting on my mint chocolate chip ice cream like she thinks I might snatch it away. Ha.
My grin returns, and I crowd her space, staring down the back of her neck, at the creamy swath of skin just visible above her battered dark-blue leather bomber jacket. Her eyes are dark blue too. I have the sudden desire to see them again, glaring up at me in challenge.
Come on, Button, give me those defiant eyes. I’ve been so fucking bored. So numb.
I move in closer. Close enough that if she breathes wrong, her pert ass will brush against my crotch. The idea sends all sorts of less pure but much better ideas into my head. Odd that this strange girl even affects me. That hair certainly does. I took one look at that hair and imagined it sliding over my hard dick. But she’s way too baby-cute for me. Not to mention the fact that she’d be more likely to bite my dick than suck it.
With that horrific thought in mind, I shift my weight back a little and glance at the items she’s unloading with sharp, snappish movements. Aside from the feminine products, almost everything she’s picked is identical to mine. Down to the eight Honeycrisp apples, two containers of vanilla Icelandic yogurt, organic granola—with the cranberries—buffalo mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, Italian bread, and smoked center-cut bacon. Exactly the same shit. She’d gone for Oreos. I wanted Oreos. And let’s not forget “The Mint.”
What the hell is that all about? If she’s not stalking me, and I can admit, I’d usually been one step behind her, how did we both happen to get the same stuff?
Bloody weird.
I study her again, annoyed, and admittedly baffled by this hyperawareness of her. Is it attraction? I’m not sure. I’m drawn to confident women. The ones who command a room. Okay, I usually go for sex kittens who eye me like candy. I’m shallow when it comes to sex. Sue me.
This woman creeps through a space like she’s trying to blend into it. Until the moment she squared off against me. And then she changed. All her attention had zeroed in on me like a one-two punch. It had been stunning. Electrifying. I haven’t felt that in so long, I almost didn’t recognize the sensation at first.
Strange. And she clearly has no idea who I am. Which I like. A lot. While not everyone recognizes me, most people around my age do. Not Ms. Mint Thief.
I let my gaze slide over her, knowing she feels it, a bonus because it makes her bristle.
Her features are quirky, a nose a bit too big, square chin pared with round cheeks. And then there are the freckles. Freckles sprinkled like cinnamon sugar over her nose and cheeks. They are just dark enough to catch the eye and make you want to count them, maybe trace their patterns. I’ve never liked freckles. Too distracting.
She even has two on her lips. A definite distraction.
It’s her eyes I want to see again. The guilt in them. Because she is guilty. She stands there fidgeting and maintaining her vigilant watch over her food. Completely ignoring me. Cute.
I loom, hovering like a conscience. Her round cheeks flush hot pink, clashing with those cinnamon freckles. I like ruffling her, even though I shouldn’t. Why that is, I can’t really say, but since I’ve always gone on instinct, I follow it now.
The cashier gives me a dirty look. Rightly so. I am a big man breathing down a single girl’s collar.
I smile at the cashier. “We know each other.”
“No, we don’t,” says the little ice cream thief, not bothering to turn around.
I lean in, the scent of girly shampoo and flustered woman filling my lungs. “Ah, now how can you say that, Button? It’s not every day I kiss a woman and give her my cream.”
Button’s whole body seems to vibrate, vacillating between fight-or-flight mode. I’m betting on flight since she’s bolted before. But then that dark-blue glare turns on me. “I kissed you. And it was my ice cream.”
Hers? I lift a brow as she pinks. Try again, you little sneaky thief.
Her brow lifts in retaliation. Who is holding The Mint, chump?
It’s kind of impressive the way she communicates “chump” so clearly with one look. The cashier hands Button her change, and she turns to go. The knowledge that she is about to walk out of my life leaves me unnervingly bereft.