Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 172(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
My breath caught. Fuck, she was beautiful.
I stood there like a fuckin’ fool. Just staring at her. Then I peeled off my shirt, shoved down my jeans, and stood in nothing but boxer briefs while calling myself twenty kinds of idiot. I shouldn’t get in that bed. I knew it. But my body moved before my brain could argue.
The mattress dipped beneath my weight as I lay down, staying on the edge, facing her back, rigid with restraint.
Then she moved. As if she felt the heat of my body and instinctively curled toward it. She made a soft sound in her sleep and pressed her face against my chest like she’d been doing it forever.
I froze. And then—I broke.
My arm came around her without conscious thought, dragging her close. Her body molded to mine, and she fit perfectly. Soft. Warm. My hand spread over her back, holding her tight and her round, juicy ass tucked against my hip, a temptation almost too difficult to resist.
I told myself I wouldn’t touch her.
But holding her didn’t count.
I fell asleep with Savannah tucked against me, breathing her in like a man starved of oxygen.
Awake before dawn, I slipped out of bed and locked the door behind me. No one saw. No one knew.
Except me.
The next night, I did the same damn thing.
And the one after that.
By the fourth morning, I’d stopped pretending I was going to stay away. I was fully aware I was fucked.
Bookshell Cove was an old corner store that sat tucked between a hair salon and a little deli, all weathered brick and sun-faded blue trim, dusty windows, and enough paperbacks packed inside to sink a boat.
Wind chimes jingled above the door as I stepped inside. It was one of those places that smelled like it had soaked up years of stories and the comfort they brought.
“Well, well,” came a familiar voice. “If it isn’t my favorite pain in the ass.”
Gloria Landry stood behind the register. Her dark hair, with a few streaks of gray, was twisted into a knot on top of her head. Her smile was wide enough to light the place without electricity. She wore a loose cotton dress and sandals, and despite being half my size and five times less intimidating, she looked at me like she’d raised me herself.
“Morning,” I said gruffly.
She put her hands on her hips.
“You’re two days late,” she teased. “Missed your weekly. Thought I was gonna have to call Edge and ask if you fell off your bike.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said knowingly as she walked around the counter. “Too busy to stop in and say hello? I might start taking it personally.” As she stared up at my face, her eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head to the side. “You sleeping enough? You look tired.”
I snorted. “I always look tired.”
“No, you usually look broody. Now you look tired and broody. That’s worse.”
I walked past the stack of new releases. “Got a list.”
Taking the paper I held out, she squinted at the names. “These aren’t your usual authors.”
I said nothing.
Her lips twitched. “They’re also all romance.”
Still said nothing.
She grinned. “Must be for someone special.”
“Just get the books, Gloria,” I muttered.
Her lips twitched like she was biting back a thousand jokes. But she just winked and patted my hand. “Give me five minutes.”
While she searched the shelves, I wandered the store. My boots thudded dully on the old wood floors. The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead, doing more to move the scent of paper around than actually cool the place down.
I’d been here enough times to know every section. I liked to read—always had. My dad had handed me an engine manual when I was seven and told me not to ask for help until I finished it cover to cover.
I read it twice in one day.
Gloria came back with a stack. “New releases by four of the authors on your list. Fifth one’s a reprint, but it’s got a bonus epilogue. You want ’em all?”
I nodded once.
“You want me to wrap these?”
“Appreciate it,” I muttered.
She laughed and pulled out kraft paper and twine. “So no one gives you shit?”
“So no one opens their mouth.”
She wrapped the books fast, bagged them up, and leaned on the counter with a smirk. “Tell your mystery girl she’s got excellent taste in fiction. These are spicy.”
“Of course they are,” I grunted.
Her smile turned softer than her sarcasm. “Whoever she is…she’s lucky.”
I didn’t answer.
But she didn’t expect me to.
As I stepped outside, the sun beat down hard, and the salty air off the gulf tangled in my beard. I was halfway to my bike when a voice called out from across the street.
“Yo, Kane!”
I turned to see Dale Rourke, owner of the beach shop across from Bookshell Cove, lifting a hand in greeting.
“Heard you have a new driver for the pro team,” he said. “Can’t wait to see him run at Redline Speedway next week.”