Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
He’s got his hair down around his shoulders, and I realize why he looks familiar. He looks exactly like the guy on the cover of my favorite romance novel.
“Are you a professor?” I ask with my mouth full of bacon.
He pauses in the act of cutting his second steak. “Do I look like a fucking professor?”
I grin at him. Unitas professors seem to always be wearing scholarly robes. I don’t know if it’s required or they’re just pretentious. Either way, I can’t picture Blondie here behind a lectern, wielding chalk. I can picture him in a ring, throwing a chair at his opponent before putting them in a headlock. “Maybe you teach wrestling.”
He gives me a look that says, Try again.
“MMA fighting?” I suggest. Mixed martial arts training would explain why he moves so gracefully.
He shrugs and keeps inhaling his steak and eggs. My guess must have been close.
Not much of a talker, this one. And I need to figure him out. My life might depend on it.
He threatened Radley easily, like it was no big deal, so I know those muscles aren’t for show.
There’s a faint scar on his forehead, disappearing into his hairline. He’s dressed plainly in a white T-shirt, boots, and jeans. His tattoos look cool but don’t give me any clues. He’s not wearing any jewelry except a giant silver skull ring on his right hand. The design on the ring looks familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe he’s in a biker gang?
Why would he be on campus? No one’s allowed unless they’re a student, professor, or a guest. He could be someone’s bodyguard, scoping out the place before the fall semester starts.
Then I have a thought, and my heart sinks. “Did my father hire you to follow me?” He’s tried this before, hiring bodyguards. He worries about keeping me safe because of his line of work.
Normally, I wouldn’t be fussed. I’ve had bodyguards before. When I’m sick of them, I just give them the slip. But the thought of this guy being hired to spend time with me takes all the fun out of things.
“No.”
Hmmm. “So you’re stalking me?”
He eats three sausages before answering my question with a question.
“Why do you say that?”
“I think you’ve been following me. Did one of Papa’s enemies hire you?” Like Dominus Vesuvio? I don’t want to drop the name, in case I need to play dumb about mafia stuff later on.
His right brow twitches. The movement is tiny, but I’m studying his face like I’m going to be quizzed on it later, so I notice. “What do you know about his enemies?”
“I know he has them.” I’m not getting Vesuvio vibes from him, which might mean he’s been assigned to protect me. “That’s why he didn’t let me go to high school. Things got hot, and I kept ditching my bodyguards, so he kept me home and made me do classes online. If you are my new bodyguard, I want you to know, I’ll behave.” I don’t want to jeopardize my newfound freedom.
“Are you capable of that?”
“Behaving?” I hold out my hand and tilt it back and forth. “Eh…”
The corner of his mouth quirks upward. He appreciates my honesty and rewards it. “I’m not your bodyguard.”
“And yet you kept me safe. In the garden and now here.” I’m about to ask why—not that he’d answer because this conversation is like interrogating a rock—when Dolores slams a plate in front of me.
“Short stack.” She refills Blondie’s mug with coffee, grabs three of his empty plates, and disappears.
I look up from the whipped cream-covered goodness with shining eyes. “You got me pancakes?”
“You ate your meat.”
I sneak my fork across the table and stab a sausage off his plate. “Now I’m eating your meat.”
A flicker of heat in his eyes. “Don’t choke.”
My entire body flushes. The air between us electrifies, and the hair on my bare arms rises. He’s mere inches away. A couple of scoots and I could be right next to him. Or sitting on his lap. The thought makes my inner thigh muscles quiver.
What would he do if I leaned in and felt up the solid biceps in his arm?
Would he catch my hand before I could even touch him? Or would he let me?
I rate my chances of actually touching him at seven percent, with a one percent chance of him hauling me across his lap to punish me for the attempt.
I rock my hips on the seat, trying to scoot closer without him noticing. It doesn’t work. He immediately clocks it with a flick of blue eyes, both daring me to do something and warning me away.
Hmm. There’s now a seventy-eight percent chance he’ll reject me, and I’m not ready for this conversation to be over. “Can I ask you a personal question?” He doesn’t answer.
“Please,” I whine.