Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
It’s pure hormone homicide when he sweeps off that top hat like a nineteenth-century gentleman and bows from the waist.
Woof Woof Dog growls but also waggles his fuzzy bottom and shuffles his Bigfoot-inspired paws.
“You thought this would be a good disguise?” I aim for contempt but fail horribly. His disarming, charming grin makes it pretty much impossible to be scowly.
“I did, yes. You have a dog. And cats.”
“You thought you wouldn’t draw any attention wearing something like that? Sonoma is a small town. If someone shows up looking like they’re going on stage for some kind of wild play, people are going to notice.”
“It’s the middle of the day. I figured a good portion of the neighborhood would be at work.”
I sigh. “Did your driver recognize you?”
“Not a chance.”
“Not a chance or not a chance as in they pretended not to while secretly taking photos and posting them all over the internet?”
He shakes his head, causing the long wig and beard to dance in tandem. “No one recognized me.”
“I did. In one point eight nine two seconds in the tiny notification square that comes up on my phone screen.”
He wriggles his toes. “I think the boots are great. And the pants. I might make them both a wardrobe staple.”
Staring at those pants is like looking directly into the sun. They’re not just a bright, shiny red—the universal color of smashing. Good god. Are you seriously going there? We do not smash our boss. We pass our boss. Yeah, well, he’s not our boss anymore, is he? It’s the pants. They put evil ideas into my head.
And my vagina.
Maybe.
Definitely.
They’re tight, riding low on Wilder’s muscular hips so his entire Adonis V sticks out. And his T-shirt is so tight that all his abs are outlined against the fabric.
But alas, those pants.
Other things stick out against the tightness.
Knob.
Erm. That is my most professional, medical, and educated way of putting it. Probably a good deal of crack in the back too.
Fuck. Me. Sideways. All ways. Always.
Even in the wild getup, it’s still Wilder underneath that. He’s here. He came to my house. It took him eight days, but he’s. Still. Here. He took the time to don a wig, somehow attach a fake beard, and put together this wild outfit made out of clothes that I know for a fact he didn’t already own.
Do I know that for a fact?
Yes. I’ve been up close and personal with Wilder’s wardrobe for the past half a decade. I know for certain he isn’t a snakeskin, red leather, plaid person. Certainly not all three together.
It shouldn’t, but my body goes from shivery to pinchy, specifically in the chest and eye area. A small whimper escapes the confines of my throat.
Wilder’s eyes widen. He shucks the glasses, and his eyes get unbelievably soft. He peels away the beard, gathering it up in his hand, then uses the other to shed the wig. Then he slips the jacket off, toes off the boots, and makes a pile right there on the floor.
I gulp, swallow, and wrap my arms around myself in one last-ditch effort to ward him off. He shouldn’t be here. Our association was strictly professional. I have a whole smattering of printed-out job applications on my kitchen counter that I was poring over. We no longer have a working relationship.
Bonus, baby! You’re free to do what you want. Let your hair down. Whip those panties off. It’s go time.
Even if the whole boss thing is no longer a thing, Wilder is still Wilder. Still famous. Still beloved by the world. Still five years younger than me.
Cougars are the new twenty.
I maintain he’s still wildly famous and will be for the rest of his life.
Maybe he’s here to tell you that he’s ready to give it all up, grow his hair and beard out for real, and live out his hot lumberjack dreams in an off-grid cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere.
Is that his dream or your dream?
Wilder rakes his hand through his real hair, freeing it from the sweaty hair skull mass the wig had pressed it into.
He does this thing, not intentionally, but it’s key to why the world loves him. I call it his I’m going to cry without crying and wear my heart on my sleeve, and it’s all heart all the time with me look. His eyes get huge and a little wet, very luminous, incredibly fathomless, and ultra bottomless. They’re like forest pine or ivy crawling up the side of a house, dark green and so innocent and guileless that it makes a person want to hug him.
Hard.
My heart squeezes, and I nearly let out a frustrated whimper.
Sensing my inner turmoil, Woof Woof Dog whines for me. Then sneezes. And farts again. My mom has taken this dog to the vet no less than six times for suspected gastric issues, but he’s all good. Just farty.