Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
When we’re finished, he takes our dishes to the kitchen. I stand, taking another scone with me to eat in the truck.
On our way there, he maintains a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. Frustration rolls off him in waves as we pull up to his house. He kills the engine, then turns to me.
“Why did you have to let Aspen have her way? You should’ve just stood your ground, and she would’ve had to go somewhere else.”
My mouth falls open. “Are you kidding me? Don’t forget that you randomly volunteered me to be your girlfriend for some reason. What you should be doing right now is thanking me for saving your grumpy, lying ass. I could’ve called you out and humiliated you, but I didn’t. Maybe I should’ve because you’ve been nothing but rude to me since the moment we met. You’re the last person to deserve my kindness.”
He sucks in a deep breath and gets out of the truck, but I don’t let him get away that easy.
“I was trying to help you because it was clear she was getting under your skin. Your reaction made it obvious that the breakup didn’t go too well.”
He doesn’t acknowledge anything I’ve said as he unlocks the front door.
“Seriously? No response to that?” I ask, following him inside and looking around.
“What do you want me to say, Oakley?” He turns with a scowl.
“Forget it.” I give up, knowing this conversation is going nowhere. He’ll never admit I did him a solid or that he fucked up.
Finn goes back to the truck and starts unloading my boxes.
I study the inside of the A-frame structured home that looks like it was built a hundred years ago like everything else on the farm. There are many windows, and some overlook the patio area with a firepit and a view to die for.
Almost every flat surface is white except for the dark hardwood floors. He has a small kitchen, a tiny living room with a TV on the wall, a coffee table, and a small couch. My eyes trail up the set of stairs that leads to the loft. From what I can tell, it’s his bedroom. The only room with a door is the bathroom. There isn’t a lot of space, and the thought has me stressing out about where my painting supplies will fit.
“Great,” I mumble, wondering if it’s too late to tell Aspen I changed my mind.
After several trips back and forth, all of my things are in.
Finn glances around. “You have too much shit. Make sure it stays out of my way.”
“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m here to do a job, not kiss your ass.”
I start unpacking, which aggravates me to do it all over again. I take my time setting up my paints and brushes. Finn watches me for ten minutes but eventually goes into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear the water running. Now that he’s not micromanaging my every move, I decide to help myself to a tour since he was too rude to offer me one.
I sneak up the stairs to get a full view of his king-sized bed, which he didn’t make before he left this morning. Dirty clothes are on the floor, and his nightstand has half-full glasses of water. I carefully make my way to the bottom floor and plop down on the couch. I push my hand into the cushions, and they’re too firm. No way will I be able to sleep on cushions filled with cement, and I start to panic about what I’m going to do.
Without quality sleep, I can’t speed paint. It takes too much out of me physically and mentally. I’m frustrated as hell as I lean back on the hard sofa. I close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart.
When the bathroom door swings open, I turn and watch as Finn walks out wearing a towel and only a towel. I swallow hard, tracing the path the water droplets slide down his sculpted body. They fall down his chest, in the caverns of his chiseled abs, and continue down to that perfect V that points at his danger zone.
Heat rushes through me, and I swallow hard, then force my eyes away. I hate how my heart quickens, and I hope he doesn’t notice. I move to my canvas leaning against the wall and place it on my easel.
“If you’re going to stay here, you’ll have to learn to keep your eyes to yourself and not ogle me.”
“Fuck off. I wasn’t ogling you.” I was just trying my best to erase that image that’s been carbon copied into my brain. The last thing I need when I’m providing myself a little self-care is images of him in a towel.
“Then what would you call it?”
I roll my eyes. “Just confirming that you’re not my type.”