Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Her eyes trail the length of my body, an assessing look that she finally allows herself, no doubt taking in every detail that’d been hidden by my costume that night two months ago. She hesitates on the tattoos that snake up my neck and decorate my arms, and I wonder what she’d think of all the ones she can't see right now.
Slowly, she smiles and shakes her head. “If you can get past the complete ridiculous coincidence of the situation, then I can too.”
I nod at her, doing my best to ignore the utter relief that swarms through me. “I'll certainly do my best.”
CHAPTER 4
Zoe
Aweek passes with Silver—Owen—spending almost every waking minute within twelve feet of me.
He's at my practice before I am in the mornings, and does all sorts of sneaky security things during the day, only to follow me home until he's sure I'm locked up safe for the night.
I'd been worried about the security detail my father hired being a distraction, but Owen?
There is no bigger distraction than him.
An incredibly gorgeous, intimidating, knows-how-to-make-me-shiver-in-the-best-ways distraction.
I knew from that night on the roof two months ago that he was tall and had muscles for days, not to mention being well-endowed in other areas, but I’d never seen his face. Never got a chance to look into his glacial blue eyes or see the way his dark brown hair falls just slightly over them.
I never got a chance to know he had tons of ink decorating his skin, including whirls of black that traced the right side of his neck, disappearing beneath the simple black T-shirts he liked to wear. I hate how curious I am to see where exactly that tattoo goes beneath the fabric. Hate that I’m both thrilled and sad that my security detail turned out to be him. I haven’t been able to find a balance since he walked through my door. Haven’t figured out how to behave around him when last week I’d been flirting with him over text and contemplating finally meeting up with him in person.
Last week, I’d sent an email to all my patients, informing them of the situation and the reason behind Owen’s presence. I assured them the practice was still a safe space, but if they were uncomfortable, we could conduct our sessions over Zoom. Luckily, no one has complained or sought council elsewhere.
Two of my regular clients opted for the Zoom sessions, but the rest were perfectly content to come in, and Owen is exceptional about making himself scarce during my appointment times. It’s actually super endearing that he makes an effort to check my schedule every morning to ensure he never accidentally bumps into a patient, likely because he doesn’t want to scare them. Not that I'm sure they would be scared. Sure, he’s practically a muscly tattooed giant, but his eyes are kind in a way that puts me at ease.
Well, most of the time. Other times, like when we accidentally touch when walking past each other, it’s all I can do to not think about that night.
Think about the way my body reacted to his.
How it still very much reacts to him even from an innocent, accidental graze, or just getting a whiff of his delectable scent, all pine smoke and sagebrush. I try to check myself, but I’m having a hell of a time separating Owen into the professional category in my mind. I know I need to, but it feels damn near impossible.
“I finished installing the new security system,” Owen says as he lingers outside of my open office door, drawing my attention from where I've been trying desperately to focus on next week's schedule behind my desk.
“Thank you,” I say, swallowing hard as I look at him.
The man fills up my doorway as he casually leans against it, the slightest smile on those full lips of his. He looks at me like I'm the most important thing in the world, and it sends warm tendrils rushing over my skin.
A ridiculous notion, since I am technically his priority. Of course he's going to look at me like that.
“I appreciate you doing that,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to get some semblance of a grip.
“Absolutely,” he says. “Your other one, I'm sorry to say, was an ancient piece of shit.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder as if to indicate the lone camera that’d been here when I purchased the place. “I'm sure I won't be able to glean anything from the footage you gathered from it, but we need to set a time to have a meeting where we go over all the evidence you've collected.”
The reality of that statement has a whole other kind of tension replacing what’d been there seconds before. Every time I think about Spencer, it’s hard to dig myself out of the hole of anxiety it puts me in.