Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
I refuse to have another panic attack.
“Need anything from the store?” Kate says, knocking on the door.
“No, thanks,” I reply.
I’m trying to be as little trouble as possible. Kate only has a small place. This was her office before we pulled the bed in here. She’s the closest friend I’ve got. I’m grateful. I don’t want to take advantage.
I keep going through the photos, looking for places to touch up. I stop when I see him. Not in the venue. Standing across the street, just about visible behind the glass.
A strange, tingly sensation prickles over my skin. My body tenses. My nipples tighten, and a shimmer dances over me. I’ve been living inside a glass bowl of grief for two weeks. I never thought I’d feel anything else again.
But now …
This man is tall. Huge. Wide shoulders stretching his leather jacket. Unruly black hair with flecks of silver, and colorful tattoos going up and down his neck. He stares at the venue, at the camera, at me. Glints of streetlight in his dark, brooding eyes.
Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe he was looking at somebody else. Just passing by.
But as I stare at him and he looks back at me, I don’t think so. It’s like he’s staring at me.
I squeeze my legs together. Roll my eyes at myself. What the… I’m letting my imagination run away from me.
My lips are aching, though. Aching. My panties rub against my point, grinding, making me sizzle. I bite my lip. The escape is so tempting. A welcome distraction. To be able to think about something non-Dad-related feels like heaven.
But the guilt is too ugly. I push it aside. I don’t deserve anything other than grief.
I leave the studio, my photos tucked under my arm. I had some time booked from before the home invasion and the horror. Figured I might as well use it.
The day is sunny, warm, fresh. Across the street, there’s a park. Kids laughing, playing. Couples walking hand in hand. Sun glistening off a water feature. And, yes, bees hovering.
That’s the thing with loss. The rest of the world just goes on as if nothing happened.
I walk across the street to my old beat-up car. We never had much money. Now, without Dad’s income, even less than ‘not much’. I’m going to need to get a second job. And soon. I can’t rely on Kate’s kindness for much longer. Certainly, not forever.
I’m almost at my car when something catches my eye from across the street. I turn…
And there he is. Leaning against the wall of a café next to the car. His hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. It’s the guy from the photo, with the tattoos and the dark-silver hair. He looks at the ground when he sees me staring.
My heart picks up like it’s betraying me, like it’s trying to choke me. Instincts tell me to calm down. I’ve never felt anything like this.
Like a big invisible hand is pushing down on my soul over and over.
You know what? No. I refuse to be meek anymore. Little-Miss-Shy, who wouldn’t say ‘boo’ to a freaking goose. I’m done with that. This guy clearly has some kind of problem. I march across the street before I can think better of it. Cannot believe what my legs are doing. Breath coming fast. Flush creeping up my neck.
He pushes away from the wall, a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He looks down at me as if I’m an animal in a zoo. A curiosity. Like he thinks I’m cute or something.
“Can I help you?” I snap, hoping my voice doesn’t shake.
His head swivels away and then back to me in a classic ‘are you talking to me’ kinda way. “Um, I’m not sure… I know… what you mean,” he says in a low, husky, drawn-out voice.
“I’ve … seen you before, haven’t I?”
He shifts. I swear I hear the leather of his jacket creak as it tries to contain his muscles. It’s open, his shirt unbuttoned to show his muscular chest. The ridged curve of his pecs. His eyes look into me, not at me. It’s like we’ve been waiting a long time for each other. Maybe that thought means I’m going insane.
“Hello?” I snap. “Earth to…”
“Radomir,” he growls.
“Is there a reason you’re following me, Radomir? Or stalking, as some might call it.”
“Stalking,” he repeats.
He takes a step forward.
I stay as still as I can. Doing one hell of a statue impression. But my thighs ache from pressing them together. He smells of man. His heat radiates. I’ve never been a super sexy sort of girl, but it’s like he’s waking something up inside of me.
Another step closer. I gasp. My photos fall from under my arm and flutter all over the sidewalk.
Radomir kneels and immediately helps me collect them. I quickly shove them away. We go to grab the same one, and our hands touch. Electricity sparks up my arm, into my body. My nipples tighten so much they almost hurt. My entrance is aching, getting wet somehow, impossibly. What’s happening to me?