Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
I could tell him that it’s okay, no one’s likely to hit on me, but I don’t know. If there’s one thing that attracts human males, it’s a female whom another male, an alpha male, has claimed. Something about wanting what they can’t have. It says more about their esteem of Caleb than it does about me. They see me with Caleb, and they’re wondering what hidden assets I have that could attract a macho man like him. They don’t know we were snowed in with nothing else to do.
Caleb gets us to the bar, still resting a large hand in the small of my back. Normally I don’t go for macho You my woman shit, but it feels nice. Gentlemanly. Especially since half the bar (all men) are still staring at us. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and take inventory just in case my fly’s unzipped or my underwear is showing.
I’m wearing a pink vest and white thermal, and comfy jeans. In the mirror behind the bar, I see the pink matches my cheeks which are flushed from the cold. And multiple orgasms. I feel pretty—much sexier than before I met Caleb—but that’s probably not why they’re staring. One, they’ve probably seen Caleb a few times, but never with a woman. Or with anyone he’s close enough to touch and talk to. Two, I have sex hair. I did my best to brush it down, but the past seventy-two hours were filled solid with fucking, and it’s going to take more than a brush to tame my “just went to bed with a raging sex fiend” hairdo. A bottle of hairspray, maybe two. And an act of God. Of course, Caleb does not have hairspray, or any “girly shit.” He thought I was crazy for asking.
As for an act of God, I’m an atheist, but even I know a hot mountain man sexing me up is a miracle, and I’m unlikely to get another anytime soon.
The bartender finishes with his last customer and comes to wait on us. He’s a big mountain man, not as big as Caleb, but cut from the same macho cloth. Normally I’d be scared shitless to come into a place like this, but with Caleb, the biggest badass of them all, it’s kinda fun.
I lean on the bar and give the man a friendly smile. “Are Joe and Joe here?” I chirp.
The bartender raises a brow and grunts, “Who?”
“The Joes who own the bar,” I say encouragingly.
“There’s just one Joe.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. It’s just the sign—” I point behind me at the door. “The apostrophe is on the outside of the ‘s’ and that means…” I coast to a stop. The bartender is looking at me like I have two heads. The rest of the bar stares at me, sipping their drinks and watching the show. I forge on. “It means it’s plural. Joe and Joe. Not… um… singular but plural possessive.”
“Babe,” Caleb mutters. His cheek twitches in a way that I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
“Nevermind,” I mumble.
“Babe,” Caleb says again and hooks an arm around my shoulders, having my back in the most literally way. “Whatcha drinking?”
I squint around the bar but don’t see any menus, so I cock my head and ask the bartender, “Do you have any white wine?”
Someone behind me snorts. My cheeks heat and Caleb twists. I imagine he glared whoever laughed into submission because the room goes quiet again.
“No,” the bartender drawls with a WTF look on his face.
Crap. I’m not a big fan of beer. “Coors?”
The bartender takes my question as an order because he thuds two bottles down in front of us and moves on.
Okey dokey.
“Guess this isn’t the place to order white wine,” I mutter.
“You’re probably the only one to ever walk in here and order it.” Caleb grabs the beers.
“Probably.”
Caleb chuckles and guides me away. My disappointment lasts as long is takes for the trivia game host to stand up and announce, then have her volunteer pass out the scorecards.
“I’ll scribe,” I tell Caleb and fuss over the pencil, making sure it’s sharp, not broken, and the eraser is good. Caleb watches with his eyes crinkled up at the sides. He thinks my fussing is cute. I know this because he tells me.
The game host calls for silence and he leans close.
“You ready?”
“I was born ready.” I poise with my pencil to the scorecard, eyes on the host.
He chuckles and goosebumps rise all over my body. It’s nice, but it makes me want to pull him into the dim hall and smooch his brains out.
“You’re distracting.” I wrinkle my nose at him.
“Am I?” His lips curve and he takes a pull of beer to hide his smile. “I’ll shut up.”
His strong throat works as he swallows. “That won’t help,” I mutter. “Not unless you put a bag over your head.”