Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Amused grunts precede him pulling back.
Meeting my gaze.
Offering me a quirked eyebrow that’s attached to a crooked grin. “Is that right?”
“Well, I don’t think it’s wrong.”
My teasing tone has him taking a small bite out of his bottom lip, something I secretly – very secretly – wish I could do. “And here I thought you were the brains of this operation.”
“I’m clearly the brawns.” Giggles are accompanied by wiggles used to free me from his grasp. “Don’t forget it’s me who can bench press a pound of strawberries with the best of them.” Laughter escapes him as his eyes follow me over to where I’m flopping back down into my chair. “You got something for me?”
“Depends.” His tongue slowly swipes his thin lips. “You got somethin’ for me?”
Anything.
Everything.
“Depends,” I sweetly retort in return and reach for my nearby coffee mug.
“On?”
“You know the drill, Cowboy.”
He lightly chuckles on a gradual creep closer. “That I do, Angel Cake.”
“So…” a small sip is had, “status report. Holes?”
“No new ones.”
“Bones?”
“Intact.”
“Cuts?”
“Patched.”
“Bruises?”
“They’ll heal.”
Turns out offering him a tasty treat in exchange for a safer return was a wise incentive. Sure, coming home alive should be enough but dangling the promise of sweet deliciousness for the less injuries he has works well for both of us because the thing I love most about Slater is the thing I hate most too.
Devotion.
His devotion to getting the job done by any means, any cost – whether financial or physical – is admirable.
And incredible.
And horrifying.
The first time he went back on assignment after fracturing his hand I barely slept the entire time he was gone. He knew it, I knew it, and when he returned home, I withheld dessert until it was revealed that no new life-altering injuries had occurred.
I’ll never forget the look of amusement and appalment at having to physically prove everything was still where it should be while standing on my sunset orange shag rug in the middle of my living room.
Well…almost everything.
His cock trying to touch the ceiling technically wasn’t where it “should be”.
However, I didn’t mind where it was.
Okay.
I totally minded where it was but only because of where I wanted it to be instead.
Somewhere it will never be.
Outside of my nearly burn the cake that’s in the oven fantasies, of course.
He’s shot a sweet smirk that’s followed by me casually motioning my head to the shelf on the back wall where the dessert is on display. “Chocolate ganache.”
Slater’s entire solid frame seems to melt into a puddle on the spot. “You know I can’t resist chocolate.”
I know I wish I was the chocolate he couldn’t resist.
Ugh.
What is wrong with me?
Why have I been thinking about us being an “us” more lately?
Is it because the last boyfriend I had sent me a similar text last weekend?
Confessing some of the things he wishes he had said but didn’t.
Done but hadn’t.
Has it prompted me to subconsciously start reflecting on the “what will never be” scenarios with my best friend?
How very fucking rude and intrusive if that’s the case.
And sooooo the last thing I need right now in my life.
Not with Hilda, Terence’s fiancée – my youngest older brother – asking me – of all people with a pulse – to plan their engagement shower.
Didn’t even realize we were that close until she said I was basically the sister she never had, which I also find odd considering we don’t ever hangout sans my brother.
I don’t typically people without their assistance except for when it comes to Slater.
And let’s just say life was a lot lonelier before we started having hockey nights at my place.
Drunken air guitar or karaoke battles at his.
Taste tests from new restaurants that deliver and action movie marathons at whichever place is up to host the big event.
That’s always done on rotation.
All of a sudden, Slater dives into his dark denim pocket and retrieves my surprise. “Found this little gem at a fun little local shop called Shoreside Treasure Chest not too far from where we grabbed dinner.” His presenting of the wood and resin pinky ring is attached to an ear-to-ear grin. “Owner said it had literally jus’ made its way to the shelf that mornin’.” With a simple nod, he summons my left hand to find its way into his. “Said it must’ve been meant to be.” He slides the sand and seashell filled accessory into place, stare lingering in mind. “I couldn’t agree more.” Slater delivers an additional stroke to the area before releasing his hold. “What do you think?” The throat clearing and small step back become clear indicators of boundaries that aren’t to be crossed. “Good fit?”
Him or the ring?
Glancing down at the fun trinket, I warmly smile too. “Definitely better than the pink flamingo Russian beanie thingy you brought me last time.”
“It’s called a ushanka.” His ass braces itself against the edge of my desk. “And you will absolutely be wearin’ it this winter.”