Page 45 of Peaches

“You can’t type with your eyes closed either, Grace,” he insists.

Shut it, Brett Beckett!

I squint them closed tighter and bite my bottom lip.

“Watch me!” I sass, as my hands fumble in front of me to find the power button on my computer. Thanks to Captain Obvious for pointing out one of my apparent issues. But as my blinded hands fly out, I only succeed in almost knocking the computer to the ground at my side, and hear my still sightless, pathetic self gasp as it starts to fall.

“Woah!” Brett stammers, as my ears pick up quick movements across the way just as I stumble out of my seat and attempt to grab the laptop before it crashes to the floor. My hands hit his hard chest instead and it forces my eyes open as they trail down to …his mouth watering, chiseled hard stomach, with an appetizing happy trail to every girl’s dream… I mean, my eyes go to my computer, he magically caught in his hands.

Yeah! The computer! In his hands!

Hell, who am I kidding, I am so damn screwed!

“Careful, Peaches,” he whispers. “This is where all of your dreams come true.”

I snatch the computer out of his grasp and give him a glare. Well, that line worked wonders for pulling me out of my trance. But just as I’m about to sit back down, his low laugh gets my attention once again and I turn to look at his smug face as he elaborates.

“The computer, Grace. Not me.”

Well, shit! I feel like an ass. But at least the misunderstanding helped clear my head. Now if only I can get it to focus on the sixty thousand more words I need to finish this novel, I would be in better shape.

“I’ll repeat myself,” he says, as he walks back to the counter and picks up his water glass. “Want to talk about it?”

I shrug and sit back down. “Not really.”

He takes a long sip and I look up to watch him eyeing me over the rim of the glass. When enough time has passed to let me grow a little nervous under his scrutiny, I bashfully look to the side and wait for him to pry further.

Because I know he will. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last week living with Brett, it’s that he has to know everything, if not, he won’t stop until he does. A habit that’s annoying yet oddly comforting as well. And one, no doubt, that undeniably got him where he is in business.

“We’re going to do this again?”

My eyes shoot up to his with slight defiance and I wait a second more.

“Because I broke up with my last fiancé and never tried half as hard to figure out what was in her head as I’ve oddly found myself wanting to try to extract shit from your brain these last two weeks.”

“Well, aren’t you the gentlemen?”

“Cut the shit, Grace!”

My eyes go wide as we attempt a stare off across the kitchen counter.

“We both know you want to talk about it, and hell, I’m surprisingly all for listening when I’ve never cared to listen to any woman so much before in my life.”

Really? The thought of that slightly intrigues me.

“But what I do care about,” he says, as he sets his glass down and takes a step towards the counter that separates me from his sinful body, “is pretending for hours, dancing around bullshit that neither of us have the time for when we’re both adults, we’re both here, interested, willing, and wanting to try and hash out whatever is in that adorable…”

Adorable?I advert my eyes to my lap to hide my blush.

“… little brain of yours that’s got you all stumped and let me try and make it better.”

He grins just as I look up and his eyes lower as he boldly stares at the deep v in my T-shirt, attempting to get a better look at exactly what anyone would expect. “You do want me to make it better. Right, Peaches?” His husky voice pulls to me like it did in the coffee shop that first day and I find myself engulfed in it. Sinking fast and not caring if I never come back up for air.

He licks his lips, his eyes still trained on my chest, and I decide I have two choices. I can continue the childish dance, which I have to admit even I can’t stand to waltz around. Or, I can tell him the truth and hope maybe something in his brain can help me. But I doubt it.

Crossing my arms over my chest, which I quickly realize was a bad idea because all it did was push my boobs up and now Mr. Peeping Tom bites his bottom lip as his eyes dilate with greed, I decide I never was one to act the part of the stupid girl, and I don’t plan on starting now.

“I think my story is shit!”

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