Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
I trudge to my car and add onto my list of things to do tonight, after I eat a healthy but satisfying meal, to take a hot bath. One of the downsides of my job is the aching shoulders caused by the stress and tension I bear each day. Of course, that has nothing to do with the actual work I do for Declan and the Blackwood Resort. I find my job to be enjoyably challenging.
No, the stress comes from the incredible amount of tension between my boss and me, due solely to the fact we were idiots who indulged in each other. While I can’t speak for Declan, after experiencing something as thrilling as our night at The Wicked Horse, the rest of my life seems dull and lacking.
What does that even mean?
Well, it obviously means I want the experience again, but I can’t have it. Some would say it was the thrill of being in a sex club I enjoyed. That I should go back and do it with someone different.
But I don’t think that’s it.
I think Declan made the experience so monumental. If we were crammed into a janitorial closet with only five minutes to get the deed done, I have a sneaking suspicion it would be just as good.
It’s the man I want to try again, not the locale.
Growling, I fling my body into my car. I have to stop thinking like that, but damn if Declan doesn’t make it impossible when he’s continuously doing sexy shit. Eyeing me in carnal ways. Rolling up his shirtsleeves in a deliberately sexy way, so I get a gander at the fantastic muscles in his forearms.
Hell, he came into the office after having worked out in the resort gym a few days ago. He said he’d just come by to pick up a few things, but had ended up taking a call. I’d been forced to watch him pace back and forth while he talked to someone. God, he’d looked amazing all sweaty with his gray t-shirt clinging to every defined muscle.
I’m doomed.
Doomed, I say.
The drive from my parents’ house to mine doesn’t take but about ten minutes. Before I even get out of my car, I pull up my GrubHub app and order a chef’s salad from a deli not far from my house, but give in to temptation and order a cookie to go with it. I’ll give into a fraction of stress eating, because if I can’t have Declan and the astronomical orgasms that come with him, then I can at least have a cookie.
With the order submitted, I move from my car to my house. It’s not much, but it’s home to me. Or at least it has been since my divorce when Caleb and I split our property. He didn’t want the house we owned because he was moving to California with Felix. I didn’t want the house because of the memories in it, the worst being that I caught him and Felix in our bed together.
Also, I couldn’t afford it on my own, so we sold it, applied the very tiny profit as we didn’t have much equity, toward our joint debt—which barely dented it—and I rented this little bungalow less than five miles from my parents on the southeast side of Vegas. It certainly made it easier to see them a bit more frequently and help out more now that I had no husband to go home to. Of course, with Caleb’s exit and the massive amount of credit card debt he’d accrued, I’d had to pick up two more jobs to compensate.
My little house is cute, and I made it mine with quirky decor. I didn’t want anything we’d accumulated during our marriage, so I’d had to buy my own. I couldn’t afford a lot. I’d bought most of my stuff thrift, but it had ended up eclectic and comfortable. Maybe if my job with Blackwood pans out in the long run, I can afford better stuff once my debt is drilled down. Hell, maybe I can buy a home again one day.
My life isn’t working out gloriously, but I’m avoiding significant pitfalls at least.
And hey… I have a great job. I could get ahead in life if I could concentrate on my new career and manage to forget about Declan Blackwood and his magic dick.
I decide to splurge on a glass of wine, knowing there’s an open bottle of Pinot in my fridge. Dropping my purse on the couch, I cross my living room and into my tiny kitchen. Just as I’m reaching for the handle, my doorbell rings, which is a surprise.
Because I work so much, I don’t know my neighbors. I haven’t been able to do more than wave while pulling in or out of my driveway. My parents rarely venture out, and they’d call me if they needed something. Past that, there wouldn’t be a reason for anyone to be at my door. For safety’s sake, I look through the peephole first.