Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
I want to do it again and again till you plead for more. Kiss you so thoroughly that you’re begging for me to make you feel good everywhere.
Because I will, and I know I can, and I want to show you. I want to do all sorts of dirty and sweet things to you.
I don’t move. I don’t trust myself not to murmur, Let me kiss you now, please.
I stay frozen in time, imagining hot and then hotter and then incendiary kisses with my best friend, until River sighs happily and moves away from me.
My eyes snap open, and I breathe out hard, reconnecting to reality here in his car on the side of the road, other vehicles whipping by as the sky swells with clouds.
River doesn’t seem to notice the harsh breath I take since he’s craning his neck around and checking traffic, then easing the car back into the right-hand lane.
I wish he had noticed. I half wish he’d said something. I almost wish he’d confront me. Force me to admit out loud the depth of my desire for him.
I set his phone back in the holder, the moment nearly broken.
But not quite.
As he speeds up the car, my racing thoughts get the better of me. “You don’t smell like gardenias,” I say, my voice sounding rougher than usual.
Can River tell?
“Ha, because that’s not my body wash,” he says with a laugh, but there’s a note of nerves in it. Or possibly, surprise.
I take another chance, push a little further. “It’s forest rain,” I say, and inside I’m burning from the heat of my own truth. “That’s what you smell like.”
River doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his lips together, then in a quiet voice, he asks, “I . . . do?”
“Yes,” I say roughly.
River shoves his left hand through his hair, then returns his palm to the wheel. “It’s my . . . um . . . shampoo. The one I started using when Nisha gave it away. It’s called something . . . I can’t remember.” River never stumbles on words. He’s a mile a minute all the time. He’s fearless, forging ahead always, conquering everything he does.
But not this second.
I steal the quickest glance in the history of stolen glances.
His cheeks are the slightest bit red. So is his neck. If I were a betting man, I’d bet he was aroused.
Just like me.
Except, I don’t know if I’ve gone too far. Or if he likes where I’m going.
All I know is he’s still quiet. Lips pressed together. Eyes lasered in on the road. Hands curled tight around the steering wheel.
His jaw ticks. Finally, he speaks. “Is your headache better?”
“A little,” I say. “My friend ibuprofen is starting to work his magic.”
“Good.” That one word comes out clipped.
And fuck me.
Maybe I should have stuck to the friendship script.
I rewind to the way we were. The dog pic. The movie. The banter. All the things we do.
“So, Clueless? Is that one of Echo’s favorite classic chick flicks?”
River takes a beat, like his brain is a train depot, and he’s the engineer. Pulling levers, rerouting, sending cars down another track. “I mean, Paul Rudd, am I right? Who can resist?” His voice comes out practiced, almost like a comic on stage delivering a line.
“Evidently not his fictional stepsister,” I say drily.
“C’mon. Alicia Silverstone was his former stepsister.”
“Ah, well, so much better. That makes it not taboo then.”
“It’s not taboo at all.”
“Just weird,” I say, egging him on, since this is easier. Clueless over forest rain. Movies over what do you want from love.
“Take it back. Take it back right now. You can’t be a Clueless hater. I categorically do not accept you being a Clueless hater,” River says.
I laugh, since we’re back to quick retorts and snappy replies, though it all feels a little forced to me. Still, I go along with it, because of the damn forty-eight hours I have to get through.
“Because for you, Clueless is gospel?” I ask.
“Clueless easily contains ten important life lessons.”
“Ten? You sure about that? Ten?”
He’s swift and certain. “Ten.”
I sweep my hand out. “The floor is yours. By all means, begin.”
“One. Cher has great friends. That’s key,” he says, then flashes me a grin that sure as shit feels like a reminder.
Is that the life lesson? Remember the pact, Owen. You and I are only friends.
But maybe this cigar is just a cigar. “I’ll give you that. Friends rock,” I say.
“Another lesson? Pay your parking tickets,” River says.
“Or better yet, have a friend with a car so he gets all the parking tickets,” I say, then bang my palms on the dashboard, bada-bing style.
River sneers. “I should have made you pay up for that one I got at the beer fest last year when you told me parking was allowed in the marina on a Saturday.”