Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
And damn, that feels right.
Buster lets out a wheeze, then a snore, then curls into a tight, contented ball. I relax a little, letting my head tip back against the high-back chair. The air in here is warmer, denser, scented with soap and a note of sweetness I can’t place.
I sit like that for hours, the minutes ticking by in quiet increments, until the darkest part of the night starts to yield to a thin blue dawn. The room lightens gradually, her curtains leaking in the softest, most forgiving light I’ve ever seen.
I glance at Iris. She’s rolled onto her side, hair tangled across her face, arm flung out as if reaching for something just out of sight. For a split second, I let myself imagine what it would be like to slip into bed beside her, to curl around her warmth and forget the outside world exists.
I want her. I want this. Now, I just have to find a way to convince her to give me a chance.
CHAPTER SIX
IRIS
The first thing I notice is the sunlight, hot and insistent through my flimsy curtains. For a blissful second, I pretend it’s a normal Saturday and not, you know, the aftermath of one of the more humiliating emotional breakdowns of my life. My head is thick, my mouth feels like I tried to swallow a roll of paper towels, and for a moment, I barely remember going to sleep last night.
There’s a yummy smell coming from somewhere in my apartment. I blink hard and push myself upright.
My brain jolts awake, a burst of electricity snapping through the mess of last night. The memories hit in sharp, flickering cuts. Buster howling and splitting the silence. My own tears hot and unrelenting. Hunter cradling the puppy while his big hands barely contained the chaos. I can’t forget the way those hands maneuvered Buster into the crate, careful and somehow gentle, like he was handling something breakable. The next breath, there's comfort, thick and heavy, sinking over me. My body hums with the memory, warm and strange. Did I really sleep through the night?
My feet find the floor. Every muscle aches. I’m still in yesterday’s sleep shirt, and my hair’s matted on one side like I lost a fight with a tornado. When I open my door, the full blast of bacon and coffee hits me, and I remember that there’s a man in my apartment.
I pad down the hallway, heartbeat suddenly doing a clumsy tap dance in my chest. I round the corner into my kitchen, and my heart, which had been going for a mild jog, goes full marathon.
Hunter Hartwell is standing in front of my stove, cooking bacon like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, he managed to shower and change into a clean black T-shirt and dark jeans while dog-sitting Buster. His hair’s damp, combed back from his forehead, a silver streak at the temple catching the light. He’s so out of place in my kitchen—surrounded by pastel mugs, a ridiculous donut-shaped sponge holder, and a curtain patterned with pink foxes—that for a second, I think I’m dreaming.
The only thing more surreal is Buster, who’s sprawled on the kitchen mat, contentedly gnawing on what looks like a brand-new rubber pizza slice. He thumps his tail when he sees me, and a little squeal escapes my mouth before I can rein it in.
Hunter looks up. Our eyes meet. A strange, fleeting smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he’s not used to the motion and isn’t sure he should commit.
“You’re awake,” he says. His voice is rougher than usual, the morning rasp still clinging to it. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want breakfast, but… figured I’d try.”
I just stand there, clinging to the doorframe like it’s a lifeline. “You’re in my kitchen,” I say, brilliantly.
“Yeah,” he says, flicking the heat down. “Hope you don’t mind. The puppy was losing his mind at six a.m., so we got an early start on the morning.”
My face is hot. I reach up and tug my hair into a lopsided ponytail, only to remember I haven’t washed my face or brushed my teeth. “You didn’t have to cook,” I say, because my brain is apparently stuck on dumb.
“I love to cook.” Hunter shrugs. “I’m making bacon and eggs. I also got coffee and donuts, too.”
He gestures to the counter, where a brown paper bag sits next to two mugs of coffee. The logo on the bag is from Gobble Me Up, the bakery in our lobby. He’s really gone for it.
“Thank you.” I glance around. The urge to bolt is so intense that I actually have to grip the doorframe harder. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be the girl who wakes up to a guy making her breakfast. My heart doesn’t know how to protect itself.