Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
She needs me, she says.
Dad needs me, she promises, even if he won’t admit it to her face.
Without me, their dutiful and loving daughter, the family isn’t complete.
Same old manipulative crap I’ve put up with my whole life, whenever I was on the verge of striking out on my own and cutting ties.
Seriously, why listen to another word?
My answer is the same no matter how much her voice breaks, no matter how much she goes to tears at the end and gurgles, “Winnie, we love you so much… you don’t even know.”
“Everything okay?” Archer asks, laying a hand on my shoulder.
I blink at him.
“Sure.” I stick my phone back in my pocket. “Just a few funny TikToks from Lyssie.” Which isn’t a lie when she’s been spamming me since this morning. Wedding fails worse than mine mixed with the usual antics of crazy cats.
“The best friend?”
I nod. “She’s the only best thing in Springfield.”
He hums and I go back to assembling the new box.
It’s quick work since his maintenance crew left some spare wood lying around in the shed and he figured we could use the boards. I definitely don’t mind.
Especially when he looks like this, staring on in silent approval and catching the way I twist while I work.
The man’s eyes are always so hungry it makes me blush.
But I kinda like it.
I finish hammering two more planks together and then let him take over when he pushes past me, signaling me to take a break.
For a rich guy with a real estate empire, he’s insanely good with his hands. And he’s really rocking the lumbersexual vibe today with a saw and a checkered shirt he’s rolled up at the sleeves to reveal his forearms.
God, I could watch him work all day, his brow glistening with sweat.
A bee zooms around his head, but instead of swiping at it, he slows down and lets it check him out before flying away.
“Nice and calm. You’re learning,” I tell him approvingly. “You’ll be a beemaster yet.”
“Don’t hold your breath. Getting this close without swatting the damn things is about all I’m good for.”
“You’re very good at it.”
Although he doesn’t look at me, a tiny grin quirks his lips.
I smile down at my hammer and the pile of nails in a small plastic container. As soon as this box is finished, I might just jump his bones right here.
But my phone buzzes again with persistent notifications, shattering my temporary peace, and my smile melts.
Okay, don’t panic.
It’s either Lyssie calling to remind me my life could be worse with shark attacks and hot dog eating competitions held at gunpoint and asking me more questions about Archer, or Mom.
Or it could be Holden.
I have a bad feeling when I finally cave and glance at the screen.
This is a mistake, he tells me. Just hear me out?
When can we talk?
Winnie, please.
This is the third message he’s sent ever since Archer practically catapulted him off the property.
The first two messages were angrier, long walls of text chewing me out for having the audacity not to welcome him back with open arms, and standing by while a brute assaulted him.
He still doesn’t get he’s half the reason I fled.
The man isn’t the brightest, no matter what his pedigree and fancy degrees say.
I guess now that he knows it didn’t work, he’s going for the whole soft apology route. An ugly good cop-bad cop routine packaged into the same person.
I delete the message, wincing sourly.
There’s no way I’m falling for that song and dance.
Besides, reality doesn’t look so nasty with a sweaty, dirt-smudged Archer stripping off his shirt in front of me.
That’s a welcome distraction that means I can push it aside for a little longer.
“Don’t you have some work?” He catches me staring and grins.
“I’m doing plenty.” Um, I’m pretty sure thirsting after the hottest billionaire daddy in Kansas City is a valid job.
Like always, I trace his dark tattoos with my eyes. They hug his massive body like ornamental war paint, giving him this feral look that electrifies the most primitive parts of my brain.
Before Archer, I never indulged in ink-dipped men.
The educated, affluent boys at college and the cute dorks I’d find in DC kept their tattoos small and discreet.
Last night, I worshipped Archer’s chest with my tongue, wondering how it still feels like skin. They’re so dark and detailed it gives me this optical illusion, like I should be able to sense the texture.
“Do you ever miss it?” I blurt out. “The army, I mean.”
“What brought that up?” He pauses what he’s doing and lowers the saw.
“Just wondering.”
“It was a different life. I was a different Archer,” he says eventually, meeting my gaze. “There are parts I miss, sure, but life’s better now. I’m not spinning along like I was those days. Losing my dad in a plane crash really fucked me up for a while. Happened not long after I left the service.”