Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
But in the face of their hostility, and with no money or time to try to join any clubs or something like that, I was really struggling.
“Stop,” I grumbled to myself as I felt water flood my eyes on my way home.
But by the time I was pulling into my driveway, there was no stopping the stream of tears. So I just sat there and let them come, knowing I always felt better when I let the emotions out rather than bottling them up.
It wasn’t all hopeless.
If I came to the conclusion that I simply couldn’t tolerate this new life, well, I was in a better position than I was when I came to Navesink Bank, right?
I had a house that I could finish fixing up and sell for a hefty profit in the current market.
Then there was the shop.
I had no idea what you could expect to sell a business like that for, but I imagined it was a nice chunk of change. More than enough, I was sure, to move back to Washington, but to do so with enough money to buy a house or condo, to maybe, I don’t know, go back to school or something. Figure out a new path in life.
I just had to stick it out for a little while. Suck it up and get the clearing out and cleaning up done, figure out the bones of the house, and give it some curb appeal. Then I could slap some paint on all the walls of the shop, thrift some nicer chairs for the waiting room, and bring in a real estate agent who could tell me what I could get for it all.
Feeling a little bit less hopeless, I wiped my tears and climbed out of my car, my dress sticking to my legs as I went, and I made a mental note to bring a towel with me to the car in the morning, knowing the fabric seats would likely still be wet.
At least the house was starting, little by little, to feel a bit like home.
Sure, the brown plaid wallpaper gave me a headache almost immediately, but the trick I found online for using fabric softener to get it off not only worked, but made the place smell a hell of a lot better.
I’d peeled up the run-down brown carpet to reveal… a slightly less hideous light brown carpet. And I’d rented a carpet shampooer to get the stains and stink out of that.
I had my cute pearly pink coffee maker on the kitchen counter, right next to my mug rack featuring all my favorites—minus the one David had stolen. There were light, airy drapes on the window to replace the thick, oppressive ones that had made the whole house feel like a morgue.
And, of course, there was my freaking amazing pink velvet couch. With my bunny lamp on one of the old end tables.
I twisted my wet hair up into an elastic band, then reached back to slip down my dress zipper.
Then, in my bra and panties, I dropped down on said couch, pulled down my blanket covered in little hearts, and closed my eyes to thoughts of cocoa coffee and warm brown eyes; to a bedroom-sexy voice; and warm lips pressing kisses to my neck, down between my breasts, up my thigh, inward.
It was probably not the smartest idea to let myself continue to have vivid, sweaty, panty-soaking fantasies about a man who was—essentially—extorting money from my business. And one I would need to interact with on a semi-regular basis.
But if he didn’t want me to have naughty thoughts of him, he shouldn’t have made that comment about being in bed with me. Or given me his jacket, all warm from his body still. Or leaned in like he was going to kiss me.
A girl could only take so much.
Especially a girl who hadn’t been with a guy for more months than I cared to admit.
If I let myself drift into the fantasy just right, I could practically feel his silky hair teasing over my skin, creating little sparks of need; I could feel it in my hands as I grabbed him while his face was buried between my thighs, driving me up relentlessly.
I was helpless but to let my own hand wander, to imagine his in its place, to bring myself up and through an orgasm that had me crying out in my empty house.
But I still felt achingly needy afterward.
Because, as I got up and took myself to the shower, I knew that no amount of self-pleasure was going to measure up to the real thing.
Not that the real thing was going to happen.
It couldn’t.
I mean… right?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Santo
I hadn’t been counting down the days or anything.
That would have been pathetic.
Almost as pathetic as the way I took extra care to put myself together that morning, fussing over my damn hair, putting on my best watch, making sure I had cologne on because I’d noticed her taking little sniffs of my jacket when I’d put it on her.