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I drop my gaze to the front of his shorts. “I could?—”
He steps back, clearly reading my thoughts. “Not on this hard floor.”
I look down at the linoleum under our feet. Oh. Yeah, that would be very uncomfortable on my knees. That’s nice of him. “I could get a throw pillow from the couch.”
He chuckles. “I’m okay.”
I give him a ‘really?’ look.
He shrugs. “Okay-ish.”
“Fine.” I open the laundry room door, and he goes to the sink to wash his hands. I run a hand through my hair watching him.
God he’s so…good.
And not just at the orgasm thing. He’s justgood. He’s a good guy.
He comes back over to me and pulls me into his arms again, hugging me, and kissing the top of my head.
Then we load all the shopping bags into the rental car and I say goodnight.
“See you tomorrow, Glinda,” he tells me softly, gathering my hair into a ponytail and slipping the tie from his wrist around it.
“Yep. Sixteen days left.” But I think I say it more formybenefit than his.
He smacks my ass. “Wicked.”
Chapter 18
Cian
It’s been three days since I fucked Scarlett.
But I’ve been to her house for dinner each night since then and I’ve given her orgasms in the laundry room both last night and the night before.
God, she’s spectacular.
We’ve also talked, brainstormed some things for my ninth graders, made treat bags for her friend Amber’s little girl’s dance recital, and listened to theWait ’Til I Tell Yepodcast with Mariah and Ruby.
Last night Ruby had to go to work early, Henry stayed back at the B&B, and Greta was at home, so it was only Mariah, Scarlett, and me. It felt really fucking good.
Probably too good.
Because Scarlett is still counting down the days until our get-to-know-you arrangement is over, and I’m already sure that I’m never getting over her.
But I still have fifteen days—well, fourteen days and a few hours since it’s now nearly five o’clock—to convince her to extend our time together to…well, forever.
I resist the urge to whistle as I head up the sidewalk toward Scarlett’s garage from the bed and breakfast on the still-warm September Friday.
I cross the large, paved parking area to the big, wide-open doors where I can see just a glimpse of her arm and hip where she’s bent over the blue Honda with its hood up.
The garage was her stepfather’s and still boasts his name on the sign forBrian’s Garage.
I prop my shoulder against the door and ask, “How did the prim and proper preacher’s daughter learn to fix cars anyway?”
Scarlett peeks around the hood and gives me a surprised smile as she straightens.
“Brian said I could preach to him if I did it here and handed him tools while we talked.”