Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“You can’t walk with a tuba,” I say. “And it would sound like crap outside.”
Shit. Ashton’s eyes light up as he connects the dots. “You were in the marching band?”
“You get great exercise from it,” I say defensively. “Something someone like you should appreciate. Plus, it looked great on my college application.”
“Hey, I have nothing against it. I bet you looked cute in your band uniform.”
“I was underaged at the time, you perv.” But I do appreciate how little he’s teased me so far—even less than Emma did when I shared this with her. “Now you owe me something embarrassing about yourself.”
“Being in a marching band isn’t embarrassing,” he says.
“Chicken.”
“Fine.” He grins. “A few years back, I went to check out puppy yoga at the gym where I was working. I got there early, so it was just me and the pups. Oh—and something I should mention about myself is that I like to talk to dogs. So, anyway, I was so absorbed in my conversation that I didn’t notice as the whole group and the yoga teacher gathered behind me. When I saw them—”
“They started to ovulate?” I interject.
“Why?”
“Because that sounds more adorable than embarrassing.” And I bet he slept with every female in that class as a result.
“I wasn’t done with the story,” he says. “When the class started, for whatever reason, a German shepherd puppy named Waggatha Christie kept sniffing my butt.”
“Oh, please. That barely passes as an embarrassing story.” I’d bet good money all the other bitches in that class wanted to sniff around him. Waggatha Christie just had the chutzpah.
“You never said what music you like to listen to,” he says, deftly changing the subject.
“The Four Seasons,” I say. “By Vivaldi.”
“No way.” He takes out his phone. “Check this out.” He taps his screen a few times, and the familiar sounds of violins ring out from the tiny speakers.
“That’s my favorite piece of music,” he explains. “So much so that I downloaded it in case I want to listen to it while I’m stuck somewhere without service.”
For the next few minutes, we sit in a companiable silence, enjoying the music.
“So,” he says when the Spring part of the concerti concludes, and Summer begins. “Tell me more about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Surprise me.”
I shrug. “I have a single bar stool in my apartment.”
“Why only one?” he asks.
“No space for more, and after dealing with my infuriating boss all day, I like to get home and relax with a glass of wine.”
He chuckles. “That almost makes sense.”
“What about you?”
He smirks. “I have a traffic cone in my closet.”
“You do?”
He nods. “When I foster boy pups that need to learn how to go on a wee-wee pad, I put the cone on said pad to help them out.”
“That also almost makes sense.”
We continue sharing random factoids about ourselves for a while, though some turn out to be controversial, like the fact that I jaywalk.
“You could get run over,” he says sternly. “In trying to save a minute by not walking to the crosswalk, you could delay yourself for days or longer, if you end up in the hospital—or worse.”
I reply with an eyeroll, and we continue the back and forth, which more and more reminds me of a get-to-know-you part of a good date.
“Mind if I take my shirt off?” Ashton asks just as I have my epiphany. “It’s getting hotter.”
It is getting hotter, and in more ways than one.
“Why would I mind?” I reply.
Given the kind of body Ashton possesses, I mind when it’s hidden.
“Cool.” He takes his shirt off.
Hmm.
If I didn’t want this to seem more like a date—or specifically, what happens at the conclusion of a third one—I should’ve objected, after all. Seeing the lickable beads of sweat glistening on his muscles makes my mouth—and other parts—water.
“It is hot in here,” I say huskily. “Mind if I—”
“Hold that thought,” he says and hurries out of the cabin.
Huh?
When he comes back, I understand why.
He’s brought back my bra and panties, which have already dried in the heat of the sun.
“You’ve already seen all my bits,” I remind him. “Why would you want me to hide them now?”
His nostrils flare. “I’m not sure I’d be able to carry on a conversation if you were naked in front of me. Seeing you in that slip has been painful enough.”
“Oh?” I teasingly tug at the strap of my slip. “You might want to turn around.”
He nearly gives himself whiplash as he turns.
Feeling much sexier than our lack of civilization should allow, I put on my underwear before I tell him he can turn back.
When he does, he scans me hungrily, and his jaw ticks. “I was wrong. This might actually make the situation worse than if you were naked.”
I moisten my lips. “It’s not like I had a lot more to say anyway.”