Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Another bang ricochets against my window, and I rocket-launch out of bed.
Shit, shit, shit, I forgot to put the can at the street last night!
I take off like the roadrunner in a blur of legs and arms throughout the otherwise quiet house.
Destination: garage.
I slide on bare feet as I round the corner of the hall, unlocking and ripping open the door at warp speed and leaning out to hit the opener. Alyssa is a dead sleeper, thank God, or she’d be running out here with her brother’s pellet gun she keeps under her pillow and lighting me up in her sleep-infused haze or questioning, for the thousandth time, why in the hell I can never remember to put the damn trash at the street—a roommate-agreed-upon job of mine.
I jump down three steps without taking a single one of them, jarring my knee when I hit the cold concrete floor, and working swiftly to recover as I run and duck at the same time, sliding under the still-lifting panels.
On a mission, I stumble out from under the door on fawnlike legs that are nowhere near ready for this level of athleticism and lose what little fraction of control I had left. I bob and weave and trip and careen, the frightening hard surface of the driveway coming toward my face in a terrifying rush.
Oh hell! I’m going to eat concrete in about two seconds.
But at the last moment, I run into a wall of hard muscle and leather gloves.
Rook’s leather-covered hands set me back to vertical slowly, his eyes falling to my barely covered chest with unconcealed interest.
I follow his gaze and silently gasp. An unswallowable knot grows in my throat as I realize I was so tired last night, I went to bed in nothing but boy shorts and my lace bra—an outfit I’m still sporting right now.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, mortification making itself known in the heat of my face. Instantly, I try to shield my lace-covered boobs by crossing my arms over my chest, but it’s freaking useless. If anything, it’s only making the situation more…booby.
Rook’s jaw tightens like he’s fighting a battle he didn’t ask for.
“Sorry, um…” God help me. This is so awkward. “I woke up approximately sixty seconds ago to the unfortunate realization that I forgot to bring down my can. I know I’m a thorn in your side with this thing every dang week.”
“I know.” His voice is gruff when he responds, and his eyes look like smoke and haze as he works to lift them from my spilling breasts. It’s a battle he nearly loses in every facet, and for the first time in a while, I feel a joyful twinge at being ogled. “I was getting it for you.”
The admission is so surprisingly friendly, I startle. “You were…you were getting my can for me?”
“You always have a full can.” His voice is rough and heavy with something severe. “Another week without garbage pickup, and the whole neighborhood would stink.”
I deflate a little, disappointed that we’re back to brusque, judgmental Rook this quickly. I know it’s naïve, but I really hoped he’d made some progress last night toward not hating me so much.
“Well, thanks, I guess.” I swallow, trying to act normal while I’m basically in lingerie on my driveway. “I’ll really try to remember to put it out Monday night next time.”
His strong shoulders sag slightly, almost as though he’s disappointed in my response. I don’t know why—I’m being perfectly friendly.
And still, I don’t understand him.
I wish I could see inside his head for just a second so I could know whether I’m imagining all this tension or if it’s actually there.
Because if I am, I’d really like to stop tripping over it or, you know, procure an invisibility cloak from Harry Potter and make myself disappear whenever he’s around.
Or, hell, maybe it’d be easier if he could see inside my head.
If he could hear what I’m thinking, then he’d understand that I’m not trying to make his job harder. I’m not doing the trash-can sprint every week to be annoying; I’m just tired and scattered and trying not to fall apart at the seams.
He’d see that I don’t have anything against him.
If anything, I wish I could get to know you better, my mind whispers.
And I almost say it.
I open my mouth, but then I quickly smash my lips shut.
Some things are probably better left in my head.
Rook
Kylie’s arms cross tighter over her voluptuous chest, and her knees turn inward against the cold as she looks at me like she’s waiting for something I don’t know how to give.
I look everywhere but at her.
Because if I don’t, I’m going to do something reckless—like pull her against me, sink my teeth into the steady thrum at her neck, and lose myself in the way our bodies would fit together if I let them.