Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
"I'm not going to fire you."
"You aren't?" I ask, relieved. Now that I'm here, I really don't want to leave... and it has nothing to do with our crazy pact. It's him. I want to stay because of him.
"No. I'm going to help you."
Chapter Six
DEACON
"You can't hike in those boots, Sunshine."
"Why not?" Cordelia demands, sticking one foot out to admire her black boot.
"They have fucking fur on them, for one," I growl. "And I'm pretty sure it's fake fur."
"It is. I'm against animal cruelty." She beams at me from the small island in the kitchen, those dimples making my cock stir.
"Secondly," I say, trying like hell to avoid the way it twitches in my pants, "you couldn't even walk across the parking lot in the damn things yesterday. There's no way you can climb a mountain in them today."
"This isn't the same pair, Deacon. Those were charcoal. These are black."
"Charcoal is black, Cordelia."
"No. Charcoal is charcoal. Black is black."
I eye them skeptically. They look like the same fucking color to me.
"They're hiking boots, Deacon. They're just fashionable hiking boots," she says, patting me on the chest as she hops down from her stool and sails past me out the front door. "Not everything has to be Paul Bunyan chic like that shirt of yours."
"What's wrong with my shirt?" I growl, glancing at Tyr.
He looks at me, huffs, and then follows after her. The traitor.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, convinced this is going to be the longest goddamn hike I've ever been on in my life. Cordelia's been in an odd mood all morning. She's stressed out and trying like hell to hide it behind false bravado and boundless cheer. I see right through her, though. She didn't sleep a wink last night.
I know because I didn't either. My cock ached like a motherfucker all night, keeping me wide awake. I kept thinking about the fact that the only thing separating us was her closed bedroom door. I thought about charging in there at least fifty-four different times to finish what she started in the living room.
But she doesn't belong out here. And I'm not so sure I'd be able to let her go if I got her in my bed. I'd fight like hell to keep her. I'm already pissed I have to let her go in two weeks. But this isn't any kind of life for a girl like her, especially not when just being out here has her ready to crawl out of her skin.
She might want to grab the bull by the horns to conquer her fear, but out here, the bull fights backs. She's lucky she survived when she was a kid. People get lost and die in the Pacific Northwest all the time. Between miles of woodlands hiding dangers like steep cliffs and sheer drop-offs and the frigid temperatures at night, there's also the incessant rains that cause mudslides and sinkholes. And then there are the bears, mountain lions, and any number of other wild animals. And the fires that sweep through, consuming everything in their path.
I can't ask her to live in a cabin in the middle of it with me, facing those risks every day. She belongs in the city. It's a helluva lot safer for her there. Or so I keep telling myself. But she marched her gorgeous ass out here, determined to face her past, just because she got drunk and decided it was time. Is she really safer in the city? Alone? Where any motherfucker with bad intentions could get to her? Hurt her?
A growl rumbles in my chest at the thought.
Hell no, she isn't.
She's a statistic waiting to happen. Or a trainwreck. Either one is just as likely because she's a hot damn mess to boot. But I want her to be my hot mess, dammit all to hell. Which means I need to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about that because the clock is ticking.
I've got two weeks to sort out my shit. Two weeks to figure out how to make this girl mine and rejoin society. When she leaves here, I intend to go with her. It's the only logical option. At least it's the only one I can live with, because she deserves more than a cabin in the woods and a lifetime of anxiety.
She deserves more than my crabby ass…but she's getting me anyway.
Ready or not, Sunshine. Ready or not.
"Oh!" she squeaks an hour later, smacking her phone up against the window. "Signal!" The damn phone proceeds to rattle and ding like she's the president and we're under attack.
"Good God, Sunshine," I mutter. "How many calls do you get a day?"
"Those are texts," she says. "My besties are all on missions. It requires a lot of communication."
"They're in the military?"