Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I look at her boobs.
There are droplets of water gathered at the hollow of her collarbone that refuse to fall.
I consider volunteering to lick them off.
“Sorry about telling you to take your shirt off before,” she says, smile tilting. “That was very bossy of me.”
Go ahead and boss me around as much as you like . . .
I watch as the drops at her collarbone finally give up and slide down her cleavage, and I track them like an idiot, openly appreciating her tits now as if I’ve never seen a pair before a day in my life.
Plus, her mouth is right here—close enough that if I breathe too loud, she’d feel it on her skin.
Don’t do it . . .
Don’t.
Don—
A light flips on inside before I can move an inch forward. Benny’s small silhouette crosses the kitchen, and from the pool, I see her rifling through the pantry fridge, then climbing onto the counter stool and dipping a chip into the salsa. She’s in her jammies.
I affix my gaze back on Layla.
“Thanks for flying me here,” she finally says. “It’ll be a nice getaway from all the . . .” Her hand lifts above the water and gets waved around. “Chaos.”
“You deserve a breather.”
“And a pool,” she adds, lips quirking, meeting my gaze straight on. “It was very kind of you.”
“Kind,” I repeat. “Not a single person has used that word to describe me a day in my fucking life.”
Her smile is punctuated by a small laugh. “I think there’s more to you than you’re willing to admit.”
Oh, I admit plenty.
I admit fame and money don’t touch the parts of me that ache. I admit I’m bored in a life people would auction their souls to live. I admit the quiet is the worst—because that’s when the guilt crawls in and reminds me my daughter brushes her teeth, packs her backpack, and loses baby teeth without a mother to cheer for her.
I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
“Welcome to the club.” Her smile is tender now. “The trick is to keep doing it anyway.”
I grunt in reply.
“You’re not as mean as you pretend to be.”
“Mean?”
Layla nods. “Yes. You stomp around grumbling and scowling, but you’re a big softie, aren’t you?”
My head shakes. “No.”
Her laugh is low. Amused. “Grumpy marshmallow.” Her eyes are dancing. “Lightly toasted.”
“Absolutely not.”
She hums. “Soft center. Crispy edge. Very bitable.”
“Muscle isn’t soft.”
“Right, but the part that put out snacks in the kitchen and extra towels in the guest bedroom because a certain someone was coming to visit?” She tilts her head toward the steps, where a neon seahorse leans against the tile. “That’s thoughtful.”
Pfft. Whatever.
She studies my face, something softer slipping through her teasing. “You’re doing fine, you know. With her.”
I almost roll my eyes. “You’ve known us for three days.”
“I’ve seen enough to know she trusts you.” She pauses. “And enough to know you probably don’t always trust yourself.”
I look away, to the squared glow of the kitchen window, to the outline of a kid sitting crisscross on the stool, happily decimating chips, oblivious to the world around her. Carefree.
Pretending to be bored by the pool in order to leave me alone with Layla.
Matchmaking little shit . . . She’s as subtle as a marching band.
I grin, letting my gaze slide back to Layla’s pretty face.
Then she does the craziest thing. The hand she’s kept under the surface finds my wrist, traces the vein there like she’s reading it, then slides to my palm. She turns our hands so our fingers line up, pressing them together. “Let me hold it for a minute.”
“Why?” The words come out rougher than I mean them to, but forgive me if I’m fucking confused right now.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Because I feel like you need human contact.”
Something knocks in my chest.
It shouldn’t matter that she’s touching me—hands touch all the time—but this isn’t casual. If it was, the gesture wouldn’t have shot straight to the places in my body that stay armored. Head. Chest.
Heart.
Her thumb brushes the base of my thumb, a little back-and-forth that steadies the pulse jumping there. “See?” she whispers. “Isn’t that nice?”
Nice? “Sure.”
I lace our fingers instead of pulling away. We float like this, water cradling us, and up close I can see a wet lash clinging to her cheekbone.
The freckles on her nose, even as the sun continues to set behind Camelback Mountain.
Then I do the craziest thing: Pull our hands out of the water. Turn our joined hands and kiss her fingers, slowly, watching her above her knuckles. Her breath hitches, and the little sound she makes . . .
“You keep looking at me like that,” she says, voice dipping. “And I’m going to think you brought me all the way to Arizona so you can flirt with me.”