Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35291 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35291 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
The third time, he works it all the way to the end, even snapping the elastic on with a low sigh.
"There." He sits back, like being this close is breaking some solemn vow.
I reach back and check his work with my fingertips. "Perfect."
"You always braid it when you sleep?"
"Always. It’s better for your hair. Less breakage."
"Right, I remember."
Something shifts in the air between us. His body tenses.
Wait. What? I turn to study his face. "What do you mean, you remember?"
Color rises in his neck as he clears his throat. "I mean... I figured. Most women with long hair..."
"You said ‘I remember’."
"I meant, I remember... what my nieces said. Or my brothers’ wives. I don’t know, I just remember."
I wiggle my tongue into my molar, thinking. Then I shake my head. Something feels fishy here, but why? What could he be hiding?
"You should get some sleep,” he says. “Alcohol actually prevents the brain from sleeping as it should, so you need more hours than usual."
He's deflecting. Again. Always deflecting when things get too real. "Beau."
"Go to sleep." Standing, he marches toward the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Couch."
"I asked you to stay."
He pauses on a long sigh, bracing both his hands on the doorframe, looking away from me. "Not a good idea."
"I'm not asking you to touch me. I'm asking you to sleep in your own bed. I’ll just happen to be here."
"Same thing."
"It's not."
Another long pause. Some mumbled cursing.
Then he turns off the light, and I hear him moving in the darkness. “Get under the covers. Daddy’s gonna tuck you in.”
I scramble under the quilt and sheet, my heart pitter-pattering as that familiar tension twists in my lower forty.
The bed dips as he settles on the far edge, careful to keep space between us. His hands poke at the quilt, securing it under my body until I feel practically mummified in the soft cotton layers. The bed smells like him, and I take a deep inhale as I push my head into the pillow.
The mattress squeaks and shifts again, the sound of boots thudding on the floor, then more movement bounces me as he maneuvers his enormous body into position.
Lying there in the stillness, I listen to him breathe.
Outside, the bear is still shuffling around, but I'm not scared anymore.
This man might not be willing to even touch me, but somehow he makes me feel safer than I've ever felt in my life.
"Beau?"
"Yeah."
"Thank you. For tonight."
"Go to sleep, baby. And, you’re welcome."
Minutes pass. I’m drifting into dreamland when I feel him shift behind me. The mattress dips as his arm slides under my pillow, the other settling carefully across my waist. On top of the layers of fabric, but still. It’s a start.
Something tight in my chest loosens.
I smile into the darkness. Out the big window over his dresser, the full moon looks like it’s smiling with me.
He pulls me against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade, steady and strong. Our skin doesn’t touch. It’s fabric against fabric, but I’ll take it.
"Just for tonight," he whispers into the dark air.
"Just for tonight," I agree.
But we both know it's a lie.
Eight
Beau
It's eleven in the morning and she's finally awake. Again.
This girl is fucking incredible. Even being in another room is making me manic. Thinking of her returning to New York has my head pounding like I’m about to bust open an aneurysm.
I’ve been out of bed since six.
She was so fucking cute, snoring softly, but my dick was making things far more difficult than they needed to be, so for her safety and my mental health, I snuck out, went outside, cleaned up the fucking mess from the bear.
Then I came back in, checked on her, showered in cold water and changed my clothes. My boxers were practically cemented to my skin from my orgasm last night.
After that, I sucked down my usual three cups of my favorite Geisha Especial coffee.
Now I’m working through emails on my laptop at the kitchen table, listening to her shift around upstairs. She got up around nine first, stumbled to the bathroom, then crawled right back under my covers like a hibernating bear.
I know, because I put a little camera on the floor at the top of the stairs so I could watch her on my phone.
Watching Tessa Quinn sleep in my bed wearing nothing but my t-shirt is something I need to record.
Uneven footsteps start down the stairs. Finally, she comes into view, stumbling on the last step. She’s still in my t-shirt, which, right fucking there, I could die a happy man.
Something about seeing your girl in your big shirt, it’s like putting a fucking ring on her finger.
Her hair’s pulling loose from the braids.
“It’s so bright in here,” she croaks, coughing, her hand flying upward to tap her throat. “Sorry. Hairball.”