Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 36673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 183(@200wpm)___ 147(@250wpm)___ 122(@300wpm)
“So could a woman.” I roll over to face him. I’m sure I’ve got bedhead, morning breath, and wrinkles on my face from sleep, but I don’t care. I want to see what he looks like first thing in the morning.
“We’ll make it happen as often as possible.” My nose slides along his, and his lips land on mine. Our kiss is soft, sweet, and over before it gets hot. Probably due to the fact his alarm is going off again.
“You’re one of those, aren’t you?” I pull back, teasing him for the alarm.
“Yep, not one to wake up unless there are at least three timers set, and that doesn’t include the snooze button.” My face must give me away, because Fletch lets out a throaty laugh, and it has me doing the same.
“What time do you have to be at work?” I ask. Being a freelance accountant means I can start and end my day when I want. It also gives me room to be a bit too relaxed if I’m not careful. I’ve done that twice since I’ve been home and had to pull all-nighters in order to play catch-up.
“In an hour.” I lift my head off the pillow, looking at the old-school style clock, one reminiscent to what my parents have in their room—brown, rectangle, with bright red numbers and what I’m sure is a massive snooze button on top that’s easy to hit. I calculate the time it’ll take him to get to the station. There’s no time for anything besides him getting ready. Damn that kind of sucks.
“You better get moving. I’ll make coffee and find some breakfast,” I offer, hoping I’m not messing up his morning routine.
“I’d appreciate that, though I’d prefer you in the shower with me,” he grumbles as if he’s put out by the thought.
“Rain check?” Fletch’s lips brush against mine one last time before he’s up and out of bed, unperturbed by his state of nakedness first thing in the morning. The man has absolutely nothing to be bothered about. He’s sex on a stick, has the swagger to go with it, and, well, if I were a man and had what he has between his legs, I would walk around naked, too. I’d probably also swivel my hips and see exactly how much fun a man has to work with.
“Absolutely,” Fletcher says, looking over one of his broad shoulders. Add his thick arms, a waist that is muscular but not overly so, an ass that begs you to pinch, and thick thighs, and yep, now I’m going to need a shower of a different kind, a cold plunge to put my overactive hormones to rest.
I scramble off the bed, pulling the sheet with me while I hunt for the discarded shirt Fletcher gave me last night to put on while we wait.
“Found it,” I mutter under my breath, shaking it out before pulling it on. My clothes are still in a pile by the front door. Neither of us bothered cleaning up after ourselves, not clothes and definitely not the food. Which means I’m going to have to work fast, a hard task when it comes to leaving Fletch’s bed. It’s like a cloud hugging you in sheer comfort. Then there’s the scent of him surrounding me as well what was his body. I uncross my legs, place my feet on the rich hardwood floors, and scamper out to the kitchen. Socks probably would have been a smart move, or a pair of slippers to combat the chill in the morning. Fletcher’s house really is beautiful. The color of the floors and walls, the textures from the couch and rugs, the way the early morning sun shines through the windows. It may be a little sparse in the way of furniture and personal belongings, but it’s cozy feeling. Fletch would probably be mortified to walk into my apartment. I’m pretty sure I have every shade of pink you can imagine in some way, shape, or form. I may have what most would consider a boring job; that doesn’t mean I don’t have a spice for life.
The short hallway opens up to the living room and kitchen. I veer to the left. The coffee pot will take the longest whether it’s to heat up for a single coffee pod style or to brew a full pot. Truth be told, I much prefer the old-fashioned style, the stronger the better, and no matter what I do on one of those single style machines, it doesn’t cut it.
“Jackpot. I don’t know why I thought any differently.” I get to work, taking the carafe to the sink, filling it up with water, and surveying what Fletch has in the fridge and pantry. My eyes flit to the clock on the stove. Time is limited, so making a big breakfast is out the window today. Maybe next time I can make him a bagel, egg, and cheese sandwich. Today, it’ll have to be my special concoction of a lightly toasted bagel, a light layer of butter, topped with a good smear of cream cheese with a cup of coffee. I get lost in working my way around in his kitchen. Realizing I’m going to be drinking my coffee black makes me want to cry. I’m a cream-no-sugar kind of girl, and having to do the opposite does not make me happy. I doctor everything up when I realize I have no idea how Fletcher takes his coffee, so I keep the sugar out of the equation but put a healthy amount in mine. Then I finish the bagels, putting them on one plate and using my other hand to hold two piping-hot cups of coffee by their handles.