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)
After toweling off, I yank open the closet and pull on clean jeans and a gray T-shirt, glancing at the time. Ten minutes. I could have been ready in three. Instead, I’m pacing the apartment, checking my phone even though nobody ever texts me except the guys at the station and the occasional building update.
The urge to pace is so strong I actually give in. I stalk circles in my living room like a caged animal, tension fizzing in my veins. I check the clock. Seven minutes have passed. I check it again. Thirty seconds. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I acting like a moron over her?
I want her. Bad. I want her in my bed, in my arms, in my goddamn life every second. I want her so much I can’t see straight.
But I also want her to feel the same way.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IRIS
I have never wanted anything more in my life. I also have never wanted to crawl inside a pillow fort and hide more. I chug a glass of water, hoping the cool liquid will douse the bonfire currently turning my insides to pure, gooey marshmallow. No luck.
Buster rolls onto his back, exposing his fuzzy belly, tail thumping a slow, steady rhythm that perfectly matches my pulse. “You think I’m insane,” I whisper at him.
He yawns, showing off his pink tongue, and sneezes once.
“Thanks for the support.”
Okay. Shower. That’s what normal people do before a first date, right? Even if the “date” is a walk around the park with the guy who just turned my entire world upside down.
I peel out of my T-shirt and sweatpants, hop into the bathroom, and crank the water so hot it almost scalds me. The heat helps, but not enough. My hands shake the whole time I shampoo, condition, and exfoliate every inch of skin that might possibly be visible. By the time I step out, my body is buzzing with nervous energy, and my hair is an unsalvageable, dripping disaster.
I stare at my reflection, forcing myself not to panic. My hair is making a credible attempt at “drowned poodle,” and I don’t have much time to fix it. I end up wrangling my hair into a messy bun and then stand there, hands braced on the counter, trying to talk myself down off the ledge.
It’s just a walk in the park. With the man who makes my heart flutter and my girly bits tingle. No big deal.
Buster, ever the supportive roommate, is sitting at the threshold of the bathroom, head cocked to the side like he’s judging me for my life choices. Which, fair.
I glance down at him. “If you could, like, tone down the side-eye, that’d be great.”
Buster just lets his tongue loll out and gives a little snuffle, which I’m pretty sure means, “You’re hopeless, but I love you anyway.” He’s not wrong.
Okay. Outfits. I have exactly three dresses that might be acceptable for a late morning walk in the park. One is white and covered in tiny lemons, one is blue with a little cinched waist, and one is a red floral number that my mother swears brings out my eyes.
I go with the blue. It’s as close to “cute but casual” as I’m gonna get. I shimmy into it and hunt around for my comfortable walking sandals. Then I swipe on a little mascara and dab on a little lip balm.
Once I’m ready, I pace the living room with Buster trailing after me with every lap, whining under his breath. Each time I check the clock, only a minute has passed. How do people survive this? Am I the only person on Earth who gets this worked up over a simple walk? Probably.
I pep-talk myself in the mirror. “He likes you. He said it. You can do this. You are a strong, independent—” There’s a knock on the door.
My brain freezes. Buster loses his mind, barking and spinning in circles like he’s just won the lottery. My hands are shaking as I fumble with the lock, heart hammering so hard, I’m worried I’ll pass out.
I open the door, and… wow.
Hunter is standing there, all six-foot-something of him, wearing jeans that fit obscenely well and a plain gray T-shirt that looks tailor-made for his body. His dark hair is still damp from the shower, little silver streaks gleaming at his temples. There’s a tiny scar just above his eyebrow, a detail I never noticed before, and it somehow makes him even hotter. He’s holding a bag of treats in one hand and Buster’s new leash in the other.
Our eyes meet, and the air in the hallway thickens as Hunter’s gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate. I freaking feel it in every molecule of my body.
For a beat, neither of us says a word.
He looks at me, really looks, and the heat in his eyes almost knocks me over. There’s so much want there that I have to hold on to the door for support. I can’t even remember my own name.