Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Noah continues with the tour, opening the last door on the left and flipping the light switch. “This is the only other room I haven’t started. It was my father’s office.”
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three of the walls. I walk over to the nearest one and run my finger along some of the old, leather-bound spines.
“He was a collector. My mother always said if anyone breaks in, let them take her jewelry, just leave the books. Apparently, they’re worth more.”
I scan the shelves, freezing when I come to an area of framed photos. My heart might even stop beating for a few seconds when I see the eyes. They’re cold, distant, even though he’s looking straight at the camera. Noah walks over, stands close behind me. He lifts his chin and gestures to the middle frame. “I was three in that photo.”
I hadn’t even noticed the little boy holding up a fish, too stuck on the evil monster standing next to him.
“Maybe you knew my father,” he says. “Damon Sawyer? He taught English at the high school.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“You sure? Mr. Sawyer? It’s not a very big school. The kids usually know all the teachers, even the ones they don’t have.”
I feel him watching me now. It takes everything I have to keep my composure. It was stupid to say I didn’t know him. Of course I’d know him. Everyone knows everyone in this Podunk town, especially a teacher who died. But self-preservation answered before I could think it through, as if saying I’d never heard the name would make it true. But I’m stuck now, so I need to go with it. I shake my head again. “The name isn’t familiar.”
“What year did you graduate?”
I swallow, trying to think of a way around this. “Two thousand and five.”
Noah reaches to the shelf, picks up a frame that’s sitting face down. He turns it over and hands it to me. A giant close-up of Mr. Sawyer’s face stares at me. For a moment, I think I might vomit.
“Are you sure he doesn’t look familiar? Two thousand and five is the year he died . . .”
CHAPTER
17
Itilt my head and squint, do my best to feign confusion. “Did you say Mr. Sawyer? I thought your last name was Meyer?” It’s the closest to Sawyer I can come up with under pressure. It’s a big, fat lie, of course, but from the uncertainty in his gaze, he can’t tell for sure. That also means he doesn’t necessarily believe me . . .
He’s about to step back, step away from me and distance himself, which is a sign of mistrust. I act without thinking. Again.
“I hate to admit this, make the math even easier to figure out my age, but high school was like twenty years ago. I don’t even remember the names of teachers I did have.” I close the little space between us, grab his forearm, yank his body against mine. His chest is hard as a rock, and I trail my fingertips from his defined pecs to the ridge of his hip, and lower.
He hisses when I dip under his shirt and scrape my nails along his smooth skin.
“I can think of better things to do than stroll down memory lane,” I whisper. “How about you?”
The smile comes back to his face. I bet I could get him to agree his last name really is Meyer, given a few more minutes. Sex has always been my way to forget, and clearly I’m not alone. The conversation we were just having about his father is about to become a distant memory for Noah.
But this isn’t only about distracting him now. My own body trembles with real desire.
I sweep my other arm around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. He doesn’t resist. Just the opposite. His tongue dips inside, taking the lead like the other day at Mom’s house. Noah groans as his hand wraps around my back, and he clutches me tighter to him.
For a moment, we pull back and just breathe, heat building between us, our foreheads pressed together. Our eyes meet for a moment, those eerily familiar eyes . . . and I lean in, take his bottom lip between my teeth, and bite down hard.
“I like that,” he growls. “When you do that. When you”—I lower my mouth, nip at his collarbone, bite his neck—“take control.” He gasps.
I pull back. “That’s good. Because that’s what I need right now.” I smile and reach for the bulge between his legs, tracing the shape, teasing. Even through his jeans, I can feel how hard he is. Noah’s teeth clench, and his eyes light up. Mr. Sawyer who?
He steps forward, reaches for me, but I smack his hand away and shove him hard. He wasn’t expecting it, so he doesn’t brace himself, and his back hits the wall with a loud thump. The impact knocks one of the photos from the shelf, and it falls to the floor, dragging my attention with it. The close-up framed photo of Mr. Sawyer is staring back at me. My pounding heart screeches to a halt, and I take a step back, hand covering my chest as I work to breathe.