Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I sit in my car for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts and figure out what I want to say, but I have a feeling it's a lost cause. As soon as I see him, we'll end up locked in the same battle we've been in since I cornered him in the library.
This is a problem. Mostly because, as much as I hate to admit it, I've been dreaming about the infuriating man. Last night, he cuffed and arrested me, and then did filthy shit to me in the back of a squad car. I woke up right before he made me orgasm. I'm still pissed about that, by the way.
I don't like him, but I can't deny being attracted to him. Anyone with eyes would be attracted to him. Not to mention, he's written some of the most incredible books.
I just can't wrap my mind around how a man as infuriating as him can write like he does. I feel seen when I read his books…and then I stand in front of him and cannot fathom how the irritating man in front of me is possibly the same one who had me sobbing into a bowl of Cheerios at three in the morning, while Letty, a single mom from Kansas, fell to her knees, screaming on the battlefield where Caladan, an alien prince from Occunia, had fallen to protect her son.
Make it make sense!
It doesn't. Which means either there is far more to him than he's shown me…or he's a wizard. There are no other viable options here.
For the record, I'm going with the wizard theory. The less I know about him, the better. I want to actually be able to continue reading his books once this is over and done with. And heroes are nothing if not disappointing when you get to know them in reality.
It's far easier to skip that whole mess and just make up a story…which is precisely why he's a middle-aged, anxiety-riddled college professor in my head.
He's making it damn hard to hang onto the vision.
I mutter a curse under my breath and climb from the car. My heels click on the pavers as I hurry up the driveway, determined to figure out, once and for all, what his actual problem with meeting readers is, so I can solve it and we can get this thing done. Then I can go back to thinking he's a boring college professor, and all my problems will be solved. Easy, right?
I press the doorbell with the sinking suspicion that it will not, in fact, be that easy.
Chapter Four
River
"Son of a bitch," I growl, my concentration shot to hell as soon as the doorbell rings. For the first time all week, the words are finally flowing…and now this. I shove my chair back from my desk, muttering a string of curses as I stomp out of my office and then down the hall to the living room.
The doorbell rings again before I make it to the door.
"Give me a damn minute!" I yell, pissed as I unlatch the lock.
Who the fuck comes over at 8:05 am on a Thursday, anyway? No one I want to see, that's who. Everyone in my inner circle knows not to bother me from seven to three on weekdays. Anyone who doesn't know that isn't in the…
My internal diatribe dies as soon as I rip the door open to see Jasmine standing on my front porch, looking more beautiful than she did yesterday. The sunlight catches in her blonde hair, turning the strands a fiery gold. Her eyes are the same stunning blue, though the usually bright hue is muted this morning.
She'd dressed like she's prepared for war, though she doesn't need armor for this battle. Her little baby doll dress and chunky heels are enough to bring me to my fucking knees. How is a man supposed to get a goddamn thing done when a woman like her is walking around out there, looking this edible?
"Good morning," she says. "Can we talk?"
"About the fact that you're on my doorstep at eight in the morning? Absolutely." I cross my arms, leaning up against the doorframe. "I have questions, like how the hell do you know where I live, princess?"
"I followed you home yesterday."
If anyone else said that sentence to me, I'd already be on the phone, calling the police. But for some reason, the fact that she's the one who just said it has my dick hard enough to fuck her clear through the stucco.
I'm being stalked by the world's most relentless book club recruiter, and I'm too fucking horny to be mad about it.
Jesus H. Christ. This is ridiculous.
"You know," I say slowly, "I've got an inbox full of emails from people trying to convince me to send one book or another to this book club or that. They're all bullshit scams, and they're all relentless as fuck. They're inventive as hell, too. But you might just beat them all."