Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 126589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
He gave a quick wave at the couple who stood framed—arm-in-arm—in the doorway behind Beth and revved the engine noisily before speeding off down the quiet road. The angry roar of his bike echoed through quiet night.
Beth climbed into her tiny, baby blue Fiat and—after a cheerful toot of her car horn—reversed out of the driveway and headed in the same direction as Gideon.
His bike was already parked and his house lights were on when she got home, not that she cared. She was merely surprised that he hadn’t gone out partying after their sedate evening with the Ryans. Then again, she was honest enough to admit to herself that her preconceived notions about Gideon were being blown out of the water on a daily basis. She hadn’t noticed him going out much. And, aside from his very, many different female visitors, he didn’t entertain. Honestly, she’d expected the place to be party central after Gideon moved in, but he’d been a pretty quiet neighbor so far.
She’d just toed off her pumps when the first angry knock slammed against the wood of her front door, causing the stained-glass panes to rattle. Beth heaved a sigh and glared at the door for a moment. She massaged her neck, hoping to ease away some of the strain and tension.
This was not unexpected…
Another angry knock.
“Butthole,” Beth grumbled. She padded to the door, fearing for the safety of her precious stained-glass panes. They were original and would be impossible to replace.
She yanked the door open and glared at the man who stood towering above her, an elbow braced against the doorjamb and his opposite fist raised to knock again.
“I have a doorbell, you know. I’d appreciate it if you would use it.” She turned her back on him and moved to the kitchen, where she tugged open the fridge before looking at him over her shoulder. He was still hovering in her doorway. “I have more of that juice you like. I also have cider and red wine.”
A fleeting look of confusion passed over his face before he masked it beneath the more familiar surliness. He stepped over the threshold and shut the door behind him with deliberate care.
“You should be more careful about opening your door in the middle of the night. I could’ve been serial killer.”
Beth laughed. “I mean, I could be wrong—”
He gasped dramatically and clutched at his chest. “What? You? No way!”
She glared at his scoffing response, and continued despite his rudeness. “—but I don’t think serial killers go around huffing and puffing and roaring and thumping and drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. I doubt any of them would pound on someone’s door and wake up half the neighborhood while they’re out doing their serial killery stuff. Besides, I knew it was you. Every other person I know is civilized enough to use the doorbell.”
He stalked toward the kitchen and, instead of sitting on one of the bar stools as he’d done last time—as Beth half-expected him to do now—he didn’t stop until he was standing right beside her.
She really shouldn’t have taken off her shoes. The height deficit, without the boost of even just a modest heel, was significant. And Beth felt at a distinct disadvantage.
He hooked a palm over the top of the open fridge door, and his other hand slotted over his hip. His gaze bored into her face searchingly before his lip curled into a sneer. “You wanted to pay me to fuck you.”
Of course, she had known he’d work it out. She’d even known that this was the reason he was here right now. But she still felt her face heat, while her eyes skittered all around the room before coming to rest on his large, booted feet.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” he prompted, even though he must’ve known that her uncomfortable silence was all the confirmation he needed.
She couldn’t quite tell what his mood was.
Anger? Amusement? Disdain? Embarrassment?
His hand left his hip to cup her jaw and she flinched at the contact. He tilted her head and forced her to meet his gaze. Her eyes reluctantly lifted to clash with his and what he felt was no longer a mystery. He was pissed off. Massively, justifiably pissed off.
His eyes, more gray than blue currently, roiled with stormy emotion.
“This is a new low in our already shitty relationship, Lizzy-bit. Aye, I was being a dick when I made that stupid gigolo comment. But I never in a fucking million years thought you believed me.”
“I d-didn’t.”
“And yet here we are. Maybe you’re thinking I should be flattered, or some shit? Are you thinking that, Lizzy?”
She couldn’t reply. She stared at him, the cold air coming from the open fridge raising goose bumps on her skin and beading her nipples. Unfortunate timing, considering the circumstances. His eyes dropped to the neckline of her dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra; she didn’t need one with a halter neck, which meant that the tight peaks of her breasts were clearly visible in the light from the fridge.