Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Poppy is having a good time, though I wonder if it’s too good of a time. I wonder if I should stop her before this gets out of hand. “Yes, really. He may be my boss—”
“Your boss, huh?” Lori gets an injection of hope.
Oh shit. I’d get Poppy out of here, but her jealous streak entertains me.
Poppy says, “A boss I have lots of sex with, like overtime pay sex. It’s that good.”
“You’re a call girl?” Lori’s eyes dart to me. “Um, I’m not into this.”
“Me either,” I say, needing to end this. “This is getting out of hand. She’s not a call girl. She’s a chef. I am her boss, but—”
“We are having sex.” Poppy raises her chin as if she’s checkmated.
Reaching over, I cover her arm with my hand as a hint. “We don’t need to continue this conversation.” Not a hint at all.
Lori is already backing away. “I don’t want to be involved in your kinkery. This is a small town, buster. You can keep your big-city lifestyle in the city of devils.” When she turns her back to us, she mumbles, “I hate out-of-towners.”
“That didn’t go well.” As soon as we’re alone, I add, “You’re getting rumors started when I’d prefer to keep a low profile in Deer Lake.”
“What?” she asks with doe-eyed innocence. “If telling the truth gets the rumor mill spinning—”
“Babe, we don’t want to do that.” Why do I feel like the grin on my face is undermining the message?
It all started in the truck. I thought Poppy was happy, but maybe she was horny?
I’ve never said no to a blow job before, but with spots of ice to avoid, I thought it was best for safety measures—hers and mine. The level of threat to my dick was exponential, so I erred on the side of caution. Now I’m wondering if I should have pulled over, and we wouldn’t have made it to Maggie’s to discuss our sex life with the whole of this small town because we all know gossip around small towns travels fast.
I’m also beginning to wonder if that Lackmont Valley house wine is moonshine in disguise.
One note comes blaring from the jukebox, and I know what it is. Three notes have her clapping her hands excitedly. “My song is finally on.”
My song, to be specific.
Requesting my music in public is not something I do. It’s something I avoid. I never asked her not to, but I didn’t think I had to when I said to keep things on the down low.
So let me get this straight. First, she gets into it with the server. Second, she blares a Faris Wheel song through the restaurant and the bar area. I can hardly wait to see where the night leads us.
It’s hard to be mad at her when she’s so fucking stunning, and I’m the root cause of it. I get up and bump her over on the pleather booth. Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I sit in pride that drunk or sober, Poppy’s my girl. And apparently a big fan of me and the band. “You know how I asked to keep a low profile here?”
“Yes.” She takes another sip of wine. “And I ignored that because it’s more fun to break the rules than to play by them?”
I bring her head closer and kiss her on the temple. “You’re trouble, Miss Stanfield, and I fucking love you for it.”
She angles toward me, her foot crossing my ankle when she stakes claims of her own with a leg draped over mine. She looks me in the eyes and says, “I love you, too.”
The car was towed.
I don’t know why it bothers me, but I think it has to do with cutting our alone time short. I know it is.
Sipping a whiskey by the fire, I watch as the flames flicker—the blue edges and the orange burn brighter. I’ve been left with my thoughts as Poppy changes into something more comfortable. I’m hoping it’s nothing but her birthday suit. I already miss being inside her.
A guitar appears. My guitar, out of the case, held next to me.
“Will you play for me?” she asks, shifting the guitar so I can see her naked body. Tease.
I grin, setting my glass down on the table, and then shift the guitar back where she held it, waving my arms on the sides of its curvature. “The guitar is inviting, but you’re sexier.”
“Please.”
“I love it when you beg. Please make love to you? Absolutely. You don’t have to ask me twice.” I start to stand, but she pushes the acoustic closer, and I flop back on the couch and take it. “I’m thinking you want me to play for you,” I say, trying to be funny.
“I’m glad you got the unsubtle hint. Play for me, Laird.” She grabs a discarded blanket from the chair and curls up on the couch next to me. “Just one song only for me.”