Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Rowdy’s mother writes romance novels? That is awesome—how did I not know this?
I don’t hear the rest of their exchange. Backing away, I tiptoe up the narrow staircase, quiet as a church mouse until reaching the sanctuary of his bedroom. Standing at the foot of Rowdy’s bed, I breathe heavily, staring down at his navy bedspread, the four pillows stacked invitingly against the headboard.
A lamp glows in the corner, my small suitcase tucked neatly into the corner of the blue room. Navy walls, white woodwork—a total boys’ room.
My intention was to sleep in the guest room, but Rowdy wasn’t lying when he told his mom we couldn’t find a spare set of sheets. No matter how hard we searched, not a single set was to be found—not that he knew where to look, and he hadn’t even bothered to ask his mom where they were, probably so I’d be forced to sleep with him, I reluctantly admit to myself.
I’m so clueless sometimes. How did I not know he was falling in love with me at the same time I was falling in love with him?
Because I was too busy blinking at him starry-eyed, that’s why!
Removing my sweatshirt, I pull the hem of my threadbare tank top down over the waistband of my sleep shorts. Run a hand along my damp hair, still wet from the shower.
Freeze as footfalls thump at the top of the stairs, stopping at the bathroom. The door closes, bang echoing in the hall.
Minutes later, the toilet flushes.
Faucet runs for what feels like an eternity.
He must be brushing his teeth, or shaving, or oh my god I wish he’d just hurry up and get back in here already so I can stop fidgeting, pacing like a caged tiger, a ball of nerves.
The bathroom door opens.
One step, then two, and Rowdy is standing outside his bedroom door; I can hear him hesitate. Debating. Hear his hand resting on the doorknob, motionless. The three short raps with his knuckles against the wood have my heart skipping like a stone across a lake.
Electricity crackles that door handle, and I watch it slowly turn.
“Yeah?”
Why is he knocking? It’s his room.
And why did I just say Yeah, and not, Come on in!
“Is it safe to come in?”
“It’s safe to come in.” I let a nervous giggle slide through my lips, hand pressing on my stomach to quell it when it flutters.
Rowdy’s big body slips through the gap in the door like a mouse squeezing through a crack in the wall, as if he’s tasked with protecting my modesty.
He stands with his broad back to the door, eyes tracking along my freshly shaven legs, pausing to study the fluffy white sheep on my shorts—if you can call them that. In reality, they’re glorified underwear, barely covering my ass, pale pink, the scallop hem skimming my upper thigh.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” I already know the answer, already know why he’s burning holes through me. Why he’s memorizing my hair and every inch of my body.
This big, beautiful boy dreams about me.
Sterling Wade is in love with me.
The thought warms me from the inside out, lowering my defenses as I lower my arms, uncrossing them from my chest, letting him look his fill.
He’s never seen me like this before, in my pajamas with barely any clothes on, and look his fill he does, taking every advantage of his viewpoint from the doorway, the low lights casting shadows on us both.
“Am I staring?” That sexy smile is warm and wide. Those wide shoulders shrug. “Sorry, it’s just—you’re in my bedroom.”
Oh jeez, he is so sweet.
“Uh…” I laugh, clearing my throat, stretching out a fake yawn. Pat it with my hand. Point to the right side of the mattress. “Mind if I take this side of the bed?”
Another slow, cryptic smile. “You take whatever you want.”
I watch, captivated, as Rowdy’s arms crisscross, reaching down to drag his shirt up and over his torso, tossing it to the carpet.
“Mind if I take my shorts off? I get so hot at night.” His fingers are already hooking inside the red mesh of his gym shorts, thumbs tugging at the fabric.
I gulp when he leans over, ab muscles tightening, gaping at one sinewy bicep, then the other. They’re perfection, just barely close to bulging, hot veins running along his forearm to the bend in his elbow, making me want to trace along their path. Making me want to leisurely run my hands along those washboard abs—earned from hours upon hours of conditioning—and damn, even his belly button is attractive.
Down those shorts slide. Over a pair of athletic, toned hips, shucked boldly to his feet, feet spread shoulder-width apart before he chucks them to the side.
Sterling Wade standing in only a pair of charcoal gray boxer briefs challenges the most resplendent national treasure as a thing of beauty, the thin fabric clinging insatiably to his thick thighs.