Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
When he eases out, he’s panting, and moaning still. But he must blink off the haze quickly, since he says, “What a mess I’ve made of your pretty hair. Let me fix it.”
33
THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF YOU
CORBIN
“I messed up your hair,” I say as I tug her up from the court, then grab my T-shirt from beneath her knees.
“I’m sensing a theme,” she remarks, smoothing her skirt.
“And that is?” I tug my T-shirt back on.
“One: you like to strip in front of me. Two: you like to make a mess of me.”
Damn, that’s a little spot on. A little scary too, for a guy who’s a neat freak. “I do.”
“Or maybe you like it when I’m messy, so you can fix me,” she counters.
Immediately, I shake my head. “You don’t need fixing,” I say, taking her hand and walking her to the bench at the edge of the court where we left our phones.
“I’m not sure about that,” she says, shrugging in acceptance.
I tilt my head. “Is that how you see yourself? As somebody who needs fixing?”
“Maybe a little bit, but my track record also suggests that,” she says, though it sounds like she’s okay with who she is.
“Does it though?”
She gives me a look that says c’mon. “I’ve been trying for years to get my business off the ground. I do need a little fixing.”
“I don’t really see it that way. I see it like the way I see hockey. There are ups and downs, but you just have to keep on practicing every day. It’s not always a straight line. There are a lot of different ways through a career.”
She seems to contemplate that for a bit, then nods. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. But also, I don’t need to fix you. I do, however, like to do nice things for you. Like braid your hair. So sit down and give me that damn scrunchie,” I order.
“So, so bossy.”
“Yes. Yes, I am,” I say and sit her on the bench, gently pushing her shoulders down.
“You have a thing for braiding my hair.”
I move around to stand behind her. “Guilty as charged,” I say, taking the offered scrunchie and setting it on top of the bench, then finger-combing her hair once again. I lean closer, whisper against her cheek, “Or maybe I just like your hair.”
And you.
And touching you.
And being with you.
With a contented shiver, she leans her head back. “Play with it then.”
Slowly, I drag my fingers through the strands. “Your coffee with cream hair,” I murmur feeling a little vulnerable saying that since it both reinforces that I’ll never really see what color it is but also that I pay attention to every damn thing she utters.
But when she tips her head back and smiles warmly at me, I don’t have any regrets for opening up. “I like teaching you about color,” she says.
My heart jumps. “Why’s that?”
“It makes me think about color in different ways but I also like that you want to know.”
“I do. I really do.”
I want to know all the colors of her. I want to feel what she sees. I want to experience her world. And those aren’t thoughts that usually come post-blow job.
I’m not really sure what the hell is happening in my brain or my chest, so I focus on the task at hand. Separating her hair into sections and contemplating where the two of us stand. The age-old question—what’s next?
“Mabel?”
“Yes?”
I loop the first strand in. “You said you were taking a break from romance. That you wanted to just focus on the business. But is it also because of Dax?”
“Yes, but,” she says, pausing as she seems to consider the question, “I was with him for a year. And in the end, I feel like I lost a lot of time, and a little bit of myself. He took up so much energy in the room. Also? I’ve been trying to open the bakery for years, it seems,” she says, with some clear regret in her tone. “When I was with Dax, I got distracted. I didn’t give it my all. Seems like being all in with this new business is how I need to approach it.”
She’s not wrong, even if that answer somehow stings the slightest bit.
“That’s true of things you love,” I say as I weave in another strand.
“I don’t want to look back and ask, did I do enough?” She gazes up at me again, and I see something in her gaze. Reassurance? “You know what I mean?”
My heart winces. “I do. I felt that way about my mom, honestly. I never wanted to wonder if I did enough—if I helped out enough. If I was there for her. So much was hard for her in the last few years, even measuring a cup of flour without spilling it, but especially in the end. I wanted to do everything I could when I was home, and to make sure she had help when I wasn’t.”