Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 65335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65335 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“Well, my ex was a butt face anyway. If he sued, then he’d probably win and put someone out of business, and he’d reap the rewards, even though he honestly never did anything good enough to deserve it. But then, I guess being rich isn’t about being good.”
Lennox’s face gets shadowy, and so do his eyes. They get dark and mossy and heavy looking. “You’re definitely right about that.”
“On that note, I could use a snack to go with that glass of wine.” I stand up quickly and get away fast because Lennox is so intense right now that he’s practically radiating fiery jet beams off of him, and I’m the one about to be incinerated.
The kitchen offers me a brief reprieve. I really like the house Ayana and Ransom chose. It’s an older one, built in the nineties, but some of it has been remodeled, including the kitchen. It’s pretty state-of-the-art in here, something I could only dream of owning. There’s a fridge big enough to stash a body or two—not that they ever would, obviously—a gas range, a matching stainless dishwasher, and even a wine chiller. Pretty fancy schmancy dancy.
I pull open the pantry—yes, there’s literally a whole pantry that comes part and parcel with this already amazing kitchen—and stare at the shelves. I don’t want to eat a bag of chips, and I’m not into making popcorn. I’m not actually hungry at all. I just want something I can keep my hands, mouth, and mind busy with that’s not Lennox. Because, yes, he would make a fine snack, but I’m also sure he doesn’t want me to feast on him. He made it pretty clear to me that he’s not into it. I mean, he did kiss me. On the forehead. And he did kind of kiss me back in the alley, but that was a one-off. For luck. Nothing more.
We might have been set up to be here at the same time by our well-meaning mutual friends and relations, but that doesn’t mean—
“Oh, look there. A container of bubblegum-flavored bottle candies.”
“Argh!” I step, spin, and throw one hand over my heart and the other over my head. I don’t know how a man could move so fast and silently—how anyone could, for that matter, including things like sneaky snakes, ninja cats, regular cats, aliens, and fog.
“Whoa, sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Lennox smiles softly at me—the kind of smile one would give to an unpredictable animal, which is probably me, cursed by time and shit luck, but still. I can practically feel the heat radiating off his big manly body because he’s so freaking close to me.
Yeah. Second heart attack, here I come.
Ovary attack, too, quite possibly. Is that a thing? Ovary attacks? They’re twinging and shivering right now, so I think it might be a real thing.
“N—no. That’s fine.” I step into the pantry just to get my body out of Lennox’s heat zone, as a cool down is definitely in order. I misstep, duh, obviously, since it’s me here, and go careening into the pantry. I put my hands out just in time to catch myself on the wire shelves, but I end up banging my knee straight into one. “Mother plucker fucker,” I curse under my breath.
I grasp the tin of candy, which is on the top shelf, expecting it to be full, but nope, it’s mostly empty, and it flies out of my hand and hits me smack dab in the middle of the forehead.
To keep from cursing, I have to bite down hard enough on my bottom lip that I taste the warm salt of my own blood. Then I want to curse about biting my lip since that hurt too.
“Not a word,” I huff as I exit the pantry, candy tin in hand. I storm off to the living room and plop down hard on the couch.
It would be so, so, SO freaking nice if I could just make it through one day without some kind of disaster happening.
Lennox sits down beside me. He leans in, and instead of mirth, all I see is concern in his eyes. “Let me see. How hard did that hit you?” He cups my jaw in his one hand—oh my god, he cups my jaw—and tilts my face down so he can examine my forehead.
I grunt. But not a sexy grunt. It’s supposed to be an I’ll freaking well live grunt. “It was mostly empty, so not that hard.”
“You could have knocked yourself out.”
“It wouldn’t be my first concussion.”
“That’s not luck,” he says, suddenly nominating himself as the luck police. “That’s just being clumsy.”
“Gee, thanks so much for clarifying that. I feel so much better.”
He sighs and lets go of my face. I immediately wish he’d put his hand back where it was and that he’d maybe kiss away the sting of the welt that is probably forming on my forehead. Finding candy can clearly be a very dangerous endeavor.