Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“You didn’t mind being naked for me earlier,” he says.
“That was a slightly different situation.”
“How?”
“Well, earlier I had hormones flooding my system because I’d been on edge for hours.”
He smirks.
I pretend to glare at him. “But I’m satisfied now and thinking rationally, and it’s just …”
His gaze softens. “Just what, Pip?”
I’ve never had a man ask me why I might be self-conscious or feel any particular way. I don’t think any of them have cared. And the mixture of potential embarrassment from explaining myself when it comes to not wanting to sit in front of him naked and the tenderness in his eyes puts me on shaky ground.
“Come on,” he says, resting his palm on my sheet-covered thigh. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing is going on. You know, it’s just that … I don’t have body image issues or anything. I’m aware that the models on the internet are airbrushed, yada, yada, yada. But you’re … you, and I’m sitting here with boobs that aren’t quite as perky as they used to be. Maybe a couple of extra stretch marks here and there.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s a pride thing, I guess.”
He grins.
“Don’t you even think about laughing at me,” I say, smacking his leg.
“You think I’d laugh at you?” He squeezes my thigh. “You don’t know me at all.”
“But you’re smiling.”
Now the bastard laughs. “I’m smiling because this is, like, the pinnacle of my life, and you’re sitting there thinking I’m mentally sizing up your tits or something.”
My cheeks flush.
“If you want to cover up, then do it,” he says. “I want you to be comfortable. But, my God, Pippa, if you had any idea how lucky I feel to have you sitting in my bed.” He shakes his head as his face flushes. “Okay, how about this? The whole time we’ve been lying here together, I’ve been waiting on you to want to go home.”
He searches my eyes as if he’s desperate for a life raft.
“Why would a girl like you want to stick around with a guy like me?” he asks shyly. “You can have anyone you want, Pip. How on earth would I ever get you to pick me?”
I don’t know what to say to that, but I figure I won’t have to say anything. Surely, he’ll smile or wink or say something arrogant that will break the preciousness of the moment.
Except he doesn’t.
I tilt my head, my hair brushing against my shoulders. Can he actually be serious?
“I hope you’re joking,” I say.
“About what part?”
“All of it.” I pull my knees up under me so I’m sitting on them. Fully aware that I’m uncovered, I let the sheets lay on my lap. “You aren’t serious, are you?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I study him, trying to determine whether he’s screwing with me or playing me … or telling me the truth.
“How on earth would I ever get you to pick me?”
I’ve not doubted that Jess is attracted to me. I believe that he thinks I’m pretty and wants to have some sort of physical relationship with me. But all of the times he’s said or joked, I thought about truly wanting something deeper together—I thought he was just being sweet. Or playful. Or charming.
But maybe I was wrong. Is it possible that Jess Carmichael has feelings for me? If so, what in the hell are we doing?
A shot of panic—a distinct need to protect myself—ripples through me.
“Jess …” I swallow with more force than necessary. “You don’t have to say all of this stuff, you know. I know you like to play around that I’m your dream girl or whatever, but I get it. You don’t have to take it this far.”
He pulls away, his forehead marred. “You think I’m playing around?”
I still. “You are, aren’t you?”
He laughs, but it’s anything but amusement. It’s almost disbelief as if he can’t process the situation.
That makes two of us, buddy.
“Let me get this straight,” he says. “You’ve thought I was joking around for the last fifteen years?”
“Well …” I grin. “You know, yeah. I guess. Mostly.”
He scoots up until he’s sitting against the headboard.
The lines of his muscles shine in the Golden Hour rays filtering in through the window. He’s brilliant and beautiful. Tanned skin, swollen lips, messy hair from the hour-long bath we took together where he washed me, massaged conditioner in my hair, and told me stories about growing up with four brothers.
There’s no mask, no veil to hide behind. No joke on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t even try to hide behind his trademark smirk.
Instead, he watches me with an openness that takes my breath away.
He chuckles, shaking his head like he, too, can’t believe this is happening. “All right, let me be crystal clear so we’re on the same page.”