Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Snap out of it. Stop acting like you’ve never seen a man before. “Man” doesn’t seem appropriate to classify this specimen into such a generic category.
Adonis?
Check.
Apollo?
Check. Check.
Human rival to the statue of David?
Check. Check. Check.
When I peek up, his eyes crinkle at the sides with an air of confidence residing inside that I assume comes with knowing who he is. I really shouldn’t find that as sexy as I do, but it’s just stacking the deck in his favor at this point.
No ring is wrapped around his finger. Not even a tan line or the remnant of an indentation from wearing something that would tell me he’s off-limits. Even the scent of him, the outdoors coating his skin like the water recently did, has my hormones going haywire. This is a business, Summer. As if I have a chance of turning this back around, I say, “You’re here early.”
“Traffic was lighter than expected.”
“That’s good.”
He stands, his shadow engulfing me whole. When I swim my gaze all the way to the top of him, he offers me a hand. I’ve made a fool of myself several times over in the span of no more than five minutes, the sweet gesture wringing through my ill-equipped-edness of dealing with a man like him. I’m pretty sure that’s not a word, but it fits the indescribable reaction I’m having, one I didn’t think existed before meeting him.
Vicariously balancing between wanting to fasten onto him like a spider monkey and reminding myself I shouldn’t entangle myself with a renter, I know that even considering anything with this man is pointless. He’s temporary at best. A fun time at worst.
Summer . . . I blink several times in hopes of clearing my eyes as well as retrieving my brain from the gutter. Who am I? Flirting and winning over hearts comes so naturally to my sisters, but it’s never been something I find natural. My mom always said we each have our own talents. I’m thinking anything to do with men is not one of mine after this catastrophe of a greeting.
There might not be any witnesses to my ludicrous behavior, but in my head, I can almost hear Dolly cheering from down the road. I’m sure my sisters would be reacting the same if they saw their trustworthy older sis as caught off guard as I am by Daniel Sutton.
“Anyway . . .” Angling the basket awkwardly under my arm, I accept his offer. Regret fills my knees, betraying me the moment his calloused hand presses against the softness of mine. The simple touch sends electricity zipping through me, and I weaken under the sturdy grasp that keeps me upright.
Our eyes connect as the bond remains strong. But as I steady on my feet, he lets go, and the magic is gone. Looking down, I rub my palm down the side of my cotton dress to ease the shock. “Well, that was—”
“Interesting,” he says, glancing at his palm before tucking it into the pocket of his swim trunks. His expression shifts into indifference as if he’d been exposed too long without his mask in place. Or maybe it’s a hint for me to get moving again.
Reaching down to dust my knees free from dirt and ground debris, I say, “We should get you and your son settled in, Mr. Sutton.”
“That’s not necessary. We’re settled.” His gaze tracks down the path to the small beach of rocks and sand mingling at the water’s edge. “Roman has already made himself at home by the looks of it.” His son skips a rock, then searches for another to toss. When his father’s eyes land back on me, he says, “And you can call me Daniel.”
“You’ve known me all of five minutes. Are we already friends, Mr. Sutton?”
He laughs. “We should be after filling out your guest profile. Seems you know everything about me from how I take my coffee in the morning to what I drink for a nightcap.”
“Fair trade Death Wish coffee beans. Black, no creamer.” I shrug as if I just nailed a quiz without studying.
“No creamer needed with good coffee.” The click of his tongue is an unsubtle back pat to his ego. Fortunately, I’m not too bothered by it.
Licking my lips, I hold his steady gaze. “And you like to cap off your night with an old-fashioned without the twist of orange.”
“I don’t need accessories to make my bourbon more palatable. I’m not complicated like that.”
I tilt my head and then shake it. Peering back up at him, all six-foot, wild guess, four of him, I find my body easing into the conversation. “You know, I had to drive over an hour to Stonehill to retrieve two bottles of the requested Blanton’s Single Barrel Bourbon.”
“It was worth it.”
“I wouldn’t know.” I shrug, feeling a wryness come over me as my footing with him steadies. “I’m not complicated like that.”