Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
“Well, you already got me, didn’t you?” I say, trying to keep my voice firm. “I’m already here. At Rawhide. What could be worse than that?”
At this, his eyes go on the move. He takes me in from the top of my head all the way to the bottom of my borrowed cowboy boots. I’m wearing a dress much like the one I had on before, in periwinkle blue. It’s very light and summery and flirty, exactly the kind of thing I like to wear, but in this moment, the dress makes me feel vulnerable. It makes me feel like the prey I am. And the way he’s looking at me doesn’t help. I have to squeeze my thighs to let his intense stare pass through me while also trying to contend with the fact that the fear he causes in me also makes my belly flutter. It’s the craziest thing.
When he’s done looking at me, he drawls, “Could tell you, but I’d rather you find out in your own time.”
My fear ratchets up. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“Supposed to make you smart.”
“What does—”
“So you’ll get the fuck out of here and go back to the party before anyone finds out you’re gone.”
Again, he’s right. If there’s an option where I get to come out of my latest blunder unscathed, I should take it. But I don’t move. Because as scary as he may be, I’m not going down without a fight. I may never have met a man like him before, a hunter to his core, but he’s also never met a prey like me, determined and brave. So I tamp down my fear and hop up on the dresser. Then, keeping my eyes locked with his, I say, “You know what, I think I’ll take my chances. I didn’t really get to do what I came here to do so”—I shrug and start swinging my legs—“I can’t really leave yet.”
He stays in his casual position, leaning against the pole, his hat still casting shadows on his face and his arms still folded across his chest. If my defiance has affected him in any way, I can’t tell. Not even when he asks, his voice low and rough, “Came here to do what?”
I keep swinging my legs. “To get to know you, of course.”
At this declaration as well, he keeps his gaze steady.
“It’s only fair, right?” I keep going. “You know everything about me. All my deep and dark secrets. You even know what kind of juice I like and what’s my favorite breakfast. Which is very impressive, by the way.” I’m not sure how I do it, but I keep my voice all breezy through this part. No stumbling over my words or even a stutter at the memory of how he not only cooked me my favorite breakfast along with stocking up on my favorite juice during a freaking kidnapping, but he also fed it to me with his own hands. Or rather his bloody hand. But moving on. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re kind of obsessed with me. I mean, you watched me for like six months. Six months, three weeks, four days, fourteen hours, and thirty-six minutes. That’s a very long time to watch someone. Even if for a job or whatever. But it also means I have a lot of catching up to do. So”—I fold my hands in my lap all primly—“what do you say? Are you ready to spill all your deep and dark secrets to me?”
He glances down at my folded hands and my swinging bare legs for a second before lifting his eyes. “It’s six months, three weeks, five days, one hour, and fourteen minutes. Give or take.”
“What?”
“Been a little over eleven hours since the last count.”
My heart skips a beat and I swallow. “Right, of course. Again, you’re the expert here.”
He watches me a beat. “I am.”
“So then—”
He keeps his eyes locked with mine as he shares, sort of randomly, “Watched you order coffee a few times.” I go still, but he keeps talking. “At the shop close to your apartment. You always get the same thing and you never know that twenty percent of your fancy city coffee is one and a half dollars.”
“I—”
“So you always smile and ask the asshole behind the counter to do the math for you before you tip.” My mouth falls open, and yet he keeps going. “And then you smile at him again and tell him how bad you are at math and that he’s the expert,” he says with a bite, especially the latter half. “And ’cause the asshole’s a big fuckin’ asshole, he tells you not to worry about it ’cause he can just bet you’re better at other things. So yeah, I know I’m the expert between the two of us.”