Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
With his hands on his lean hips, his massive shoulders, arms, and chest doing their trifecta level best to test the endurance of his black button-up shirt, a pair of what has to be obscenely expensive dress pants, and probably literally tailor-made square-toed shoes, he looks like a different man. He’s freshly shaved, his jaw jutting out at an angle that would shatter a regular man’s if they tried that, his coal black eyes giving full glower.
Instead of being glacial, the air is blistering hot, and I’m surprised smoke isn’t coming out of his ass.
Err, I mean ears.
It’s not like I notice his ass. Ever.
But what the fuck?
Thorn’s body is right, even if he is wearing office clothes instead of field clothes. Side note: They might also be extra yummy on him. But why in the over-loving hairy cat Cahoonas is he sporting a full fake beard and mustache? He’s also wearing thick-framed black square glasses. A half lumberjack, half nerd, all evil, sexy, ovary-exploding twin.
“Why on earth are you wearing fake facial hair? And are those glasses prescription, and you normally rock contacts or…”
He takes one menacing, silent step forward.
Right. I have to say, it was irresponsible and rude of me to goad him into coming here, but his absence was not part of the deal. I wasn’t actually serious about ruining his life—not that serious anyway, and I’ve cooled down since then—but if I were, it would be hard to achieve said ruination when the man isn’t even here.
His jutting jaw gets a little bit more jutty under the fake beard. It is fake, right? This isn’t actually an evil twin for real, is it? He makes a full-blown wolf growl deep in his throat. One hand shoots out and braces itself on the wall while the other loosens the top button on his shirt.
We’ve gone straight past fuses and right to the whole gearbox, folks. An impending nuclear meltdown of the century.
I’ve just unleashed the beast, and I’m standing here at the stove, making one heck of a sandwich with only a flimsy metal flipper as my first line of defense. Okay, so I’d probably have the frying pan, too, but that’s a little much.
There’s probably something wrong with me, considering that I find this exciting.
The sparring.
The growling.
The wild disguise.
New fear unlocked. Further strange and fake facial hair kinks.
Peach Lips is on the giant cat tower in the corner of the room. There’s one in every room I’ve been in, and if it’s a large area, sometimes two. This one is a large-scale tree, about tree-sized. It climbs all the way to the roof, and Thorn’s architect clearly didn’t believe in low ceilings. It branches out, brown on the trunks and branches, and green carpet on the little dens and pedestals, the bucket beds, and the platforms.
There’s a stand that is clearly supposed to be hollow for jumping through to the next tier, but Peach Lips didn’t get the memo. She curled up there and is now sleeping a deep, happy cat sleep, her belly sticking straight through the hole, fuzzy and hilarious on the underside of the hole she’s covering.
I manage not to gulp in half terror, half something else, and flip my sandwich over so it doesn’t burn. I angle more to the side so I can see Thorn 2.0 Hairy Edition in all his angry, office-attired glory and grace him with my best, disarming smile. “Would you like something to eat?”
His nostrils flare in a very dragonish manner. “Would I like something to eat? No, I would not like something to eat.” But then…he inhales. Exhales. And a look of consternation grips his face before shifting to pure bewilderment.
Another growl fills his kitchen, and since the place is basically empty, as though they just finished the house or a magazine team was coming in here to expound upon the benefits of extreme minimalism, it echoes. But it’s not from his throat. It’s from his stomach.
That explains a lot. Hanger.
“Ahh.” I wave the flipper with more courage than I feel. “So you would like one.”
“What is it?” He gives me a look that could wither even the happiest, hardiest flowers and simultaneously melt all unguarded panties.
Ugh, it’s not even guys in dress shirts and suits that do it for me. Usually, that’s the last thing I’m attracted to. Falsity in any guise is a total turnoff, and the power thing always rubs me the wrong way.
But maybe it’s because there’s nothing false about Thorn. Even when he’s not rocking the I could kick your ass and snap you in half without breaking a sweat getup.
“Brie, those green apples I found in the bottom crisper, the farmer’s sausage off the top shelf, and some raspberry jam.”
His face contorts. It’s so unfair that even grimacing, he’s so uber-attractive. “That sounds like a combination that shouldn’t meet.”