Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
If I was okay before, I am officially not okay now. My brain just turned to mush, and my lady bits are officially running the show.
I nod, but it’s a weird, stuttery bobble-head move. “I’m good,” I say, except it comes out like, “I’m guh,” because my mouth is as dry as the desert. I try to play it cool, but I’m pretty sure my face is doing that thing where I look like a Muppet.
He doesn’t let go. His hands are huge, steady, and so freaking warm. They bracket my arms like I might try to escape—which, to be fair, is not totally out of the question. Then, somehow, the universe decides things aren’t mortifying enough.
The Frenchie picks that exact moment to absolutely lose his little mind. One second, he’s wedged between my ankles like a furry doorstop, and the next, he shriek-barks? Screams? It’s honestly earsplitting—and right then, he launches himself after a squirrel with the force of a tiny, bat-eared rocket.
His leash rips from Gorgeous Man’s hand. It snaps across my calves, and my tote bags fly out at warp speed. For a second, I’m just a human windmill, flailing in slow-mo, and then Gorgeous Man’s arms catch me again. Hard. My face slams straight into his chest, and holy fuck, he smells like expensive aftershave, fresh laundry, and oh so yummy. My hussy lady bits are doing the Tango.
Somewhere, the Frenchie is in hot pursuit, ass wiggling, leash dragging behind him. He steadies me, big hands splayed low on my hips. His mouth dips close to my ear, voice dark velvet. "Wait here."
“Yes, sir,” flashes through my mind, but I think I actually whimper a little as he lets go, gently, like I'm breakable. And then he’s gone, moving way too fast for someone in Italian leather shoes, chasing the Frenchie across the fake-perfect lawn. He looks back once, brown eyes locked on mine, and holy hell, I feel it everywhere.
My legs? Still jelly. My insides? Melting. I'm just standing here on the sidewalk, trying to remember how to breathe, while Gorgeous Man sprints after his demon dog. It's honestly the hottest thing I've ever seen. His tailored suit and fancy dress shoes don’t slow him one bit as he chases down a stocky Platinum Frenchie in a raincoat.
Frenchie zig-zags across the perfect lawn with his little rear end wiggling and the leash streaming behind him like a party streamer.
Gorgeous Man finally lunges, snags the little Frenchie under one arm like a football, and straightens, muttering to the little dog the whole time.
He stalks back toward me, dog tucked under his arm, eyes fixed on mine. My heart pounds in my throat as he stalks toward me. The Frenchie snorts, totally smug, and I realize I’m still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my mouth hanging open and two tote bags on the ground at my feet.
He stops right in front of me.
His molten dark chocolate eyes are fixed on me like I’m the only person on planet Earth. He puts the Frenchie down but keeps the leash clamped in one big hand. The tiny dictator immediately tries to bulldoze my feet again, but Gorgeous Man just tightens his hand on the leash and plants himself between me and the bulldog’s next attack.
He's huge. Like, blocks-out-the-sun huge. The Frenchie, meanwhile, is making little huffing noises and eyeballing my ankles, but Gorgeous Man just smiles, all slow-burn and dangerous.
"Sorry about that," he says, his voice deepening. "Salty gets, uh, passionate about his squirrel patrol." He glances down at the dog, then back at me, and I swear to God my ovaries self-combust. "I'm Jay Vale. And this little asshole is Salty."
He holds out a hand. I have to shift my tote so I don't drop it with the others, but when his palm wraps around mine, electricity flows up my spine.
"Nadia Mirewood," I manage, and holy crap, my voice is still there. "And it’s totally fine. Honestly, I’ve survived worse. You should see third graders at recess."
He grins, and it’s like the sun comes out just for me. That grin is lethal. My knees almost give out, and I hope to God he doesn't notice.
His eyes flicker over me, slow and deliberate, lingering everywhere. My hands, my chest, the wild disaster of my hair. I feel my whole face go tomato red.
"Third graders, huh? I bet they're easier to manage than this guy." He jerks his chin toward the Frenchie, who is currently doing his best to sniff his way through my dropped tote bags.
“It would probably be a close tie.” I smile up at him. Oh, man, I’m in so much trouble here.
CHAPTER TWO
JAY
I’ve never believed in fate or love at first sight or any of that other emotional bullshit. I believe in science, in technology, in the facts that are well documented. But standing on the sidewalk outside #1 Love Place, holding a tiny tornado of a French Bulldog, and staring into the too-blue eyes of a woman who stole my goddamn heart. Oh, shit, is this really fucking happening?