Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Right, Kimmy. Because I have nothing better to do,” I fume, not so silently, as my car eats up the miles that separate my house from Nanny’s. I actually only live twenty minutes away when traffic is light. I’m hoping it’s not, so I’m delayed, or that it starts thunder storming in order to force Van inside, but alas, nothing saves my bacon.
My bacon is thoroughly cooked the minute I pull up to the curb in front of Nanny’s house and see the object of my darkest fantasies and Kimmy’s most wretched schemes, straining at Nanny’s push mower. Even he has to put some strength behind it to get the damn thing working, but my god, does he ever get it working.
Van doesn’t know I’m there yet because his head is down as he focuses on pushing the lawnmower from hell through the waist-high grass. It allows me to take a sinful moment to admire the muscles in his shoulders straining underneath a gray T-shirt, and by straining, I mean flexing, bunching, and putting on a show worthy of popcorn and lowered lights. I reach up and wipe away a bit of moisture that’s gathered at the corner of my mouth. Yeah, moisture. Not drool or anything. Shit, where’s Curly Cookie when I need to blame something on him again?
He’s not doing what Kimmy accused him of, which was brown-nosing it hard with landscaping skills in order to get back into his family’s good graces. Shudder. Granny brown-nosing. He’s just mowing the lawn because he’s a nice person—a nice strong, insanely muscly person—and the lawn needed mowing badly.
My eyes do another involuntary slow perusal away from those muscular shoulders and the damp skin that makes the thin fabric cling, outlining every deltoid and trapezius and all the other muscles that I don’t know the names for. I have no idea if deltoids and trapezius muscles are even in the shoulders and back. But one muscle I do know is the gluteus maximus, and holy ham and creamed corn with a side of stuffing, Van has the most beautiful, tight, mouth-watering set of buns on this planet. His faded work jeans outline his derriere to perfection. Oh, look. There’s moisture leaking from my mouth again.
I get out of the car before someone can come and give me a ticket for loitering or arrest me for voyeurism. I should have spent the ride over thinking of a good ice breaker, one that doesn’t sound like the first cheesy pickup line that comes into my head and gets blurted out in my usual awkward fashion. I stumble from the car, like literally nearly falling on my face, slam the door shut, and take the sidewalk in my flip flops, making sure that none of the crumbling bits of concrete catch me and make me go flying. This time I’m wearing skinny jeans and a light, flowy blouse, so if something did happen, at least panties making an appearance wouldn’t be a thing. Plus, I also have the advantage of a bra this time around. Just saying.
No witty icebreaker is forthcoming, so as I approach, my stomach is a tight fist of panic, and my throat is bone dry. I watch Van finish a row of grass, and at this point, it’s so long that it looks like he’s making hay to bale up behind him. I get another few seconds to admire the delicious hunky male before he reaches the end of the row by the hedges that are in dire need of pruning and has to turn around to start the next pass. Damn it, that’s not good time management. Think, think, think. Brilliant. Let’s go. Pull it out of your ass if you have to.
“Hey.” The word comes out as a high little squeak, mostly because now I’m thinking about pulling things from where the sun doesn’t shine. I raise a hand in greeting, but it’s shaking. I’m shaking. Damn it, where are my lady balls when I need them? “I…is Nanny home?” Double damn it, of course she is.
Van frowns. He swipes his brow, which is dotted with perspiration, then wipes his hand on his worn-in jeans. He’s just as sexy from the front. Maybe doubly so because his face is so beautiful that it gives his ass a run for its money and because his damp T-shirt neatly outlines ridges of hard abs below.
My whole body pops a lady boner. I mean…I mean…fuck.
“I…uh…actually, I know Nanny’s home. I was hoping I could talk to you.” Smooth, Remi. Super smooth.
Van’s brow arches up, and his silence is ominous. Maybe he’s just trying to catch his breath. His chest is heaving. His whisky eyes narrow, but that could just be because the low-hanging sun is right behind me.
“It was sweet of Nanny to give out frozen containers of gravy as party favors the other night,” I blurt, really going off the rails. “I really enjoyed mine. Have you tried any of it yet?” Yeah, because people just sit down and make a pot of gravy to have for dinner. His eyes narrow further, and I can feel myself going up in the usual flames of humiliation. “How she manages to not fall into that big freezer of hers, be swallowed up whole, and never seen again is beyond me. If one did get sucked in, they’d have to wade through eight hundred and sixty-four of those containers to find their way out again. That’s a fair warning if she ever sends you down to the basement to dig through it for a bag of peas or whatnot.” Oh god, shut up. Please, shut up. I’m nervous now, and being nervous makes me ramble. “Also, how did they get that giant freezer down there in the first place? I’m pretty sure the house had to have been built around it.” Making things worse now. So much worse. So much humiliation. So much, please kill me now.