Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Who knew a soft cotton shirt could make such a difference?
It’s not the shirt that has you skipping like a schoolgirl, dipshit.
Ignoring my accurate inner monologue, I push open Lucy’s door. She often sleeps in late, even during school holidays, so my unexpected sleep-in shouldn’t have altered her schedule too much.
“Wakey wakey…” My words trail off when I find her bed empty and made and her pajamas folded on the top of her drawers.
“Lucy,” I call out louder this time. I have no reason to freak out. I’ve not stumbled onto one case where the perp folded a victim’s clothes before kidnapping them, but old habits die hard. The first and only time we played hide-and-seek was almost five and a half years ago. “Where are you?”
Henley’s head pops out from the bottom of the stairs, her smile growing the longer she takes in my shirt. Once she’s had her fill, she says, “She’s down here with me.” I slow my trudge down the stairs so she can appreciate the relaxed fit of my shirt while also giving me time to drink in the one she’s wearing as if it is a dress, but she halts my inspection of her sweltering thighs by announcing, “But you’re banned from the kitchen.” Before I can utter a syllable, she clarifies. “We have a very delicate operation occurring, and a certain someone doesn’t want the mess decreasing the deliciousness of her creation.”
I groan when the truth smacks into me. Henley’s shirt slash dress was a decoy. Even with Ms. Mitchell cooking at least twice a day in the years she lived with us, she only let Lucy cook with her once. That’s how much of a messy “creator” she is.
After smirking at how well flour blends with Henley’s light-colored hair, I ask, “Is the dining room safe?”
“The dining room is perfectly A-okay.” My earlier grimace jumps onto her face. “But I’m not sure how long that will last. Lucy’s creations are… all-encompassing.”
Laughing, I head to the dining room before remembering I owe her my gratitude for her assistance and massage last night. This morning was the first time I hadn’t woken up in sweats from lying on a bum shoulder throughout the night.
When I spin around, Henley snaps her eyes away from my denim-covered ass. Even though I shouldn’t, I sigh in relief that the interest isn’t blatantly one-sided. There’s less chance of me getting sued if she instigates our exchanges instead of dodging them.
Upon spotting my smile, Henley drags her teeth over the lips I dreamed about last night. “Unlike last night’s numerous attempts to make you squirm, that wasn’t what it looked like.” She is the worst liar I’ve ever met. “I was looking at your ass, but purely from a designer’s perspective.”
She’s lost me, but I remember my objectives before her gorgeous face and barely covered body can turn my brain to mush. “Talking about last night, I forgot to thank you for your help.”
She brushes off my praise with a wave of her flour-covered hand. “No thanks needed. It was my pleasure.” She swallows when she realizes what she said before locking her rapidly dilating eyes with mine. “Not like that. I… ah…” She pauses for several painfully long seconds before she twists her lips. “I can’t dig myself out of that hole, so I’m just going to say if you don’t want to go broke, you should consider purchasing rechargeable batteries.” She hits me with a frisky wink before breezing through the swinging kitchen door like there isn’t enough room for both her and the hundreds of images bombarding my head. “Oh, and I’m glad you like the shirt I made you enough to wear it.”
Shock echoes when I ask, “You made my shirt?”
Her head returns to the hallway, but her body remains in the kitchen. “Uh-huh. After that short skit in the living room”—why does my mind go to her massage instead of the twenty-minute yacht-fucking scene we watched?—“I had a heap of adrenaline to disperse but only a handful of materials and a steady hand to get the job done.”
Trying in vain to keep my mind out of the gutter, I ask, “You handstitched me a shirt?”
Henley takes a moment to register if my high tone is shock or disappointment before bobbing her head. “Looks like the measurements I took were spot on.” A faint grin furls her lips at one side. “I usually break out the trusty tape measure to ensure the perfect fit.” Again, she drags her eyes down my frame before biting her lower lip. “I need to give my new method more thought. It could gain me a heap of new customers.”
Before I can fake that I’m not jealous, a smoke cloud billows out of the kitchen. “Should I—?”
“No!” Lucy and Henley shout at the same time.