Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
"When my father died from a heart attack, my mom died with him a little. She had some rough years, but managed to get herself back together. Now, I just do my damnedest to make sure she stays that way. Not always easy." The low chuckle he lets out makes me smile back.
"Where does she live?" I fold and unfold my hands in my lap. Then I reach for the fork and murder another carrot I have no intention of eating.
Allister's golden-brown eyes follow my hands. It only makes me more nervous, so I leave the carrot to die a slow, agonizing death and hug myself, rubbing my arms, trying to scrub away the last of the tingle he left when he touched me.
"Not far from me. I bought her a condo about a half mile from my house. Any day I can't get over there to check on her, I send one of the girls."
The girls.
Hearing him use that word sends a flash of jealousy through me.
At the Monarch clubs, the staff are mostly women, and I'm sure they're who he means. But that does nothing for the green-eyed monster clawing up my gut.
I know from Decker and May that they have a tight group at the places they run. But let's just say, the women who work the clubs are what male fantasies are made of. Add in my scars, my leg braces, and the fact that I can't walk on my own, and I'm not exactly fantasy material.
"That's nice." I push the murdered carrots around my plate, hating the bratty tone in my reply. Neither of us has taken a bite, and the food's gone cold.
Allister takes a deep breath, and I'm once again captivated by the veins on the backs of his hands. The dark hair peeking from under the white cuff of his shirt is more interesting than it has any right to be. No part of a man has ever done this to my body before.
Stop staring at all his man-ness, ding-dong. Clearly, you can't handle it.
The voice in my head thankfully doesn't mention the demise of my panties.
"It's not like that," he says, and the gentleness in his voice tells me he's trying to soothe my nerves, which only makes them worse.
I turn to look out the window over the sink. The sunlight streaming through it hurts my eyes, but I'd rather not face him right now.
"I want..." He stops, his hand shooting out to close over mine, fork and all. "I need you to know it's not like that. Leah, I'm their boss, that's all. Some of us go back a long way, but it's never been, and never will be, anything more than professional. Never."
"None of my business," I snap, turning back to meet his eyes, and the contact sends my heart racing.
"Leah, listen to me. It's not like that."
His eyes are so open, so honest. It makes my face hot. I nod, and he lets go of my hand, but a part of me wants him to grab me again.
How can a man who looks like him exude such softness?
I haven't been charming, not even a little, and not once has he shown me anything but acceptance and kindness. It's as though he wants to draw the petulance out of me and absorb it into himself, take it away and hand me back something warm in its place.
For a second, I'm lost in his calm power. I shiver, imagining what that caged intensity looks like once it's let loose.
In anger.
Or passion.
The thought of the second one draws my nipples tight. A flash of him naked, arms locked, caged above me, nearly pulls a whimper out of me. Instead, I shift in my chair, squeezing my core tight as the tension builds by the second.
"I'm still stuffed from earlier." He lets out a sigh, and for some reason, I find myself wondering how long it's been since he was with a woman. "Are you still full?"
All I can do is nod, but it's enough. He traces the backs of his fingers over my wrist, so lightly it leaves a tingle and a burn behind.
"I know I promised to get you to eat. But that can wait. Let's set it aside for now."
"I used to cook," I blurt out, suddenly needing him to know I wasn't always like this.
And dance, I want to add, but I keep that one to myself.
"Yes? But Henrietta scared you out of the kitchen? Because that would be understandable." Allister picks up the plates and stands, carrying them to where the pots and pans sit.
"No. Getting around in there just became such a hassle. May and I used to spend hours with the cooks at the house before the accident. My constant craving for blueberry Poptarts is what got her baking." I let the words trail off and brace for the silence that follows. But if he notices it at all, he doesn't let it show.