Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
The horses snort, scraping their hooved feet over the dirt of the barn when I enter. It normally calms me, but I can’t keep my eyes on the animals long before I’m outside again staring up at her window.
Yep, I’m well and truly fucked.
Chapter 22
Anna
Never in a million years would I look at Deacon and think the man owned a ranch. His tight t-shirts, cargo pants, and combat boots make me think he’d be more apt to live in a tent in the woods than a homestead on so many sprawling acres. I’m sure my guess in size wouldn’t do it justice.
The bed I wake up on is old, but the sheets are fresh. The soft fabric enticed a long nap from me, but they didn’t keep me from waking with a start with my head tilted to listen for possible threats.
I hate the woman I’ve become. I’ve never lived in fear. I’ve never woken up with a jolt wondering if someone was mere feet away ready to hurt me.
The house is silent except for the wind whistling through the trees outside, but it brings no real comfort. I feel dirty and abused even though I haven’t met any real physical harm. My skin crawls from knowing how close that man got to the bedroom back at the hotel.
I dig through the bags in front of the dresser, grateful that Flynn had the peace of mind enough to separate them into categories. Before long, I find my lounge pants and a long-sleeved shirt. A tank would be best due to the heat, but I feel the need for an extra layer of comfort right now.
I don’t bother digging through the bag with all of my bathroom essentials, I just slip my hand under the handles and carry it with me into the hall. There’s no bathroom in my room, but I noticed one on the way to the room earlier.
Once inside, I lock the door behind me, shaking the entire time at my vulnerability as I strip down and climb in the shower. I tremble the entire time I wash, not willing to take the time to shampoo and condition my hair. I don’t want to be trapped naked in the bathroom if something terrible happens. I’m quick and efficient, and I don’t think I’ve taken a shower as quickly since I was in high school and embarrassed that I hadn’t filled out yet.
I dress just as fast, uncaring that the fabric of my shirt sticks to my still damp back. After carrying my dirty clothes and bathroom items back to the room Deacon designated as mine, I head downstairs.
Smells strong enough to make my stomach growl hit me before I clear the bottom of the staircase, and I follow the scent to the kitchen. Finding Deacon standing at the stove, stirring something in a large pot, leaves me breathless, and now I understand why Mom was so pleased when Dad was caught in the kitchen cooking on Sunday mornings. We’ve always had house staff, and they prepared all meals except for Sunday brunch. Dad always cooked for us, and he did so with a huge smile on his face like it was a privilege to prepare a meal for his family.
Deacon isn’t smiling when he turns around and notices me hovering in the doorway. He isn’t exactly frowning either, but that serious face, the one that tells me he’s not in the mood for any bullshit, is chiseled into his features. His gaze tracks all the way down my body, and I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to stop the shiver caused by his perusal.
“I made chicken and dumplings. That and chili are about the only things I know how to cook, and I didn’t figure your stomach could handle my chili right now.”
I want to argue that I’m full-blooded damn Italian and no stranger to spicy foods. Hell, I’m first generation American, and my parents brought over their love of food from Pesaro when they immigrated. Hell, there’s a good chance if I’m cut, I’d bleed pasta sauce.
But I don’t argue.
“I’ve never had chicken and dumplings,” I tell him instead. “Where are we?”
“South east of the city,” he answers, but he turns his back to me once again.
“Illinois?”
He grunts, the mmm hmm response enough to make me want to sweep his legs out from under him. Why does he always have to be so damn annoying? A little common courtesy goes a long way.
“Bowls are in that cabinet over there. You do know how to set a table, right?” I know it’s another jab at my upbringing, but somehow I manage to keep my mouth clamped closed.
As my frustration grows with him, I realize it helps to alleviate the fear I thought I’d always suffer from, especially with what’s happened recently.