Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
I turn to the bedroom where I find Rowan stretched out in bed, reading one of the romance novels. He’s already in a pair of gray sweatpants—and nothing else.
I stop in the doorway, questions flinging themselves against my skull. How did he get down to sweatpants? And where did they come from? But before I can ask, I…stare.
I’ve never seen him shirtless before, and the view is outrageously sexy. First, I laser in on two tattoos, one on his chest, the other on the front of his shoulder. There’s so much more to see—from the firm pecs to the sinewy biceps to the abs. Dear god, the abs. They go on forever and ever and ever, and they’re covered in just the right dusting of dark hair. I want to lick a path from his chest down his stomach and to the waistband of those sweats.
“What? How?” I sputter. “Your clothes. Did you…teleport?”
He sets the book down, spine cracked, and I wince for the book’s pain. “Yes. I teleported to my car.”
“You had lounge pants in your car?” I sound like I’m on helium from the shock.
He sits up. “Isla, I bought out an entire Christmas train seven days before Christmas for our date. You think I didn’t stash something in my car to sleep in?”
“But you didn’t know about the cottage rental, did you?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “They didn’t tell me. But what if, for instance, you said, Rowan, I need you to fuck me right now, and I needed to get you and your horny ass to a hotel right away? My cabin is fifteen, twenty minutes from here. We may not have had that kind of time.”
“My horny ass? Your horny ass.”
He’s dead serious as he nods. “Yes, Isla. My horny ass too.”
I try to say something more, but words are trapped on the way to my mouth. He planned for this night, down to the little details. “But you didn’t invite yourself to spend the night?” I ask, like the logic of who asked who matters.
His smile is smug. “What’s the fun in that? It was better to wait for it. Now come over here. I’ve been telling you you’re worth waiting for—and I only get six more days. Let’s make the most of them.”
My heart plummets from the reminder. Six more days. That’s not many.
I wish I’d stopped fighting this attraction sooner. Wish I’d given in to the obvious earlier. Then I could have had more time with him before this ends. And it will end.
But the clock is ticking now, so I shrug off whatever was holding me back before. After I pick up the paperback and close it properly, then set it on the nightstand, I flop down onto the love-shack bed. He offers me an arm, and I snuggle in the crook of it. But when I get close to him, my senses are knocked out of whack again. “Your breath is minty. Your face is…”
“Dewy as fuck?”
I laugh, patting his cheek. “Yes.”
“Skincare matters, Isla,” he says, completely serious.
I smack his abs. “You brought skincare products too? And toothpaste?”
“Like I said, I prepared.”
“Where did you wash your face?”
“Kitchen sink. You were in the bathroom. And besides, I knew you’d want to climb me again like a raccoon when you got in bed, so I wanted to make it more enjoyable for you.”
I slug his arm. “How thoughtful.”
It’s said deadpan, but it’s also the truth. The man is surprisingly thoughtful. He planned for possibilities but let me take the lead on whether I wanted them or not. That’s gentlemanly in its own way.
“But you want to know what I really want?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Me?”
“I want to know about these tattoos,” I say, then smile. “Even though I kind of already know about them.”
His ink is a stick figure drawing of two people—the one of him and Mia I saw on the corkboard in their cabin. The other is the grumpy cat, the design his artist mom did.
“Ask away,” he says, his voice warm and open, a difference from the Rowan at the start of the matchmaking, and I relish the shift.
I run my fingers over the ink on his right pec, tracing the tiny stick figures with the kind of reverence they deserve. It’s his daughter’s artwork, after all. “So…this one is Mia, right?”
“She drew it one afternoon after we moved into a new place.”
“In the city?”
“Yeah. Once it was clear Regina wasn’t coming back, we moved into the place we live now and settled in, and one night she sat down and drew this. She said, ‘This is us now.’”
Tears prick the back of my eyes. “That’s beautiful,” I say, my voice wobbly.
“Thanks,” he says, a little hoarsely, like the memory tightens his throat too. “I don’t usually…share that.” His voice is soft, with a note of reverence underneath it. But he looks away, like he’s trying to recall something. He must find it, because he turns back to me. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve told anyone.”