Read Online Miss Adventure by Geralyn Corcillo - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Geralyn Corcillo
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of the shirt and pull it over my head.”
“What? You want me to, uh, help you?” I throw the word help in there at that last second, just so he doesn’t know how freaked out I am that he wants me to touch him. To touch him. On the bare skin.
His voice gets quiet but serious. “Lisa, our plan is never going to work if we can’t help each other out.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. “What do you want me to do?”
He bends forward. “Just grab the back edge and pull it over my head,” he coaches patiently.
I reach out, getting a grip of the dark, thin fabric. I try to ignore the scrape of my fingernails across his skin as if this is no big deal. Really. Touching Jack Hawkins and deliberately taking his clothes off is hardly the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Really. I mean it.
Holding my breath, I tug, starting to undress him.
And I get chills.
I’m the one touching him, and I get chills. Good lord, this is too bizarre. He’s totally hot, yes, but in a lust-after-him-from-afar-like-you-lust-after-George-Clooney kind of way. Not in an actual feel-a-rush-of-close-up-tingles kind of way. How dumb can I get? I’m starting to work for the guy today, as his own private idiot.
The dynamics are so wrong.
I flex my fingers, and Jack shivers .
OH. MY. GOD.
“Damn, I’m cold,” he says. Then in a singsong voice, “I know, I know—that’s what I get for running around barefoot in a rain storm.”
I stupidly look at his feet. No socks or shoes.
I try to shake myself out of my steamy trance. I’m hot, he’s cold. I really AM an idiot.
I give the shirt a sharp yank, and Jack pulls back. The rubbery fabric stretches up across his back, loosening its grip on him. With a wrenching jerk of his shoulders, he breaks free from the suit and stumbles back.
And there we stand. Me, looking like a million bucks, and Jack making me feel seriously overdressed.
I hold his icky shirt by two fingers, keeping it well away from my Gucci threads. I cock one eyebrow. “ Voila .” I hope I sound oh so cool and blasé. That’s my intention. Because the truth is, I’m scared down to the tips of my split ends.
Jack is totally lean and defined and squeezed into nothing but a pair of maritime hotpants. I try to remember to breathe. I’m really scared of good-looking people. Isn’t everyone? I mean, everyone except the people who are actually gorgeous?
Jack takes his wetsuit top from me. “Thanks.”
He heads over to a closet built into oak paneling, pulls out some clothes, and then disappears into a bathroom set in the far corner of the gargantuan office. He shuts the door behind him and in a second I hear the shower start.
I need to sit down.
I push some books, newspapers, and two and a half pairs of socks aside to sit down on a roomy brown plaid couch pushed against the far wall. I slump back, take a few deep breaths, and try to relax.
Jack’s lair is part sporting goods store, part rec room, part county clerk’s office, part garage workbench. His desk is littered with a computer, a phone, papers, gear-looking things, a bike tire, strips of cloth, and what looks like a chicken alarm clock. And this is the guy who's going to make me stronger than a locomotive?
The bathroom door opens. Jack steps out, wearing an untucked white button down shirt with the cuffs undone and a faded pair of Levi’s. His hair is wet and his feet are still bare.
I swallow. He’s wearing more clothes than I’ve seen him in so far today, but seeing him fresh from the shower and in the process of getting dressed is so...intimate.
“What were you testing this morning?” I try my hardest to sound truly interested in the work. Not the man. Definitely not the man.
Jack breaks his stride and looks up. “I need seriously choppy waves to test the accessibility of pockets in the suit,” he says with a complete command I envy. “We’re supposed to get rain on and off from now through Halloween, but I have to take advantage of days
“What? You want me to, uh, help you?” I throw the word help in there at that last second, just so he doesn’t know how freaked out I am that he wants me to touch him. To touch him. On the bare skin.
His voice gets quiet but serious. “Lisa, our plan is never going to work if we can’t help each other out.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. “What do you want me to do?”
He bends forward. “Just grab the back edge and pull it over my head,” he coaches patiently.
I reach out, getting a grip of the dark, thin fabric. I try to ignore the scrape of my fingernails across his skin as if this is no big deal. Really. Touching Jack Hawkins and deliberately taking his clothes off is hardly the scariest thing I’ve ever done. Really. I mean it.
Holding my breath, I tug, starting to undress him.
And I get chills.
I’m the one touching him, and I get chills. Good lord, this is too bizarre. He’s totally hot, yes, but in a lust-after-him-from-afar-like-you-lust-after-George-Clooney kind of way. Not in an actual feel-a-rush-of-close-up-tingles kind of way. How dumb can I get? I’m starting to work for the guy today, as his own private idiot.
The dynamics are so wrong.
I flex my fingers, and Jack shivers .
OH. MY. GOD.
“Damn, I’m cold,” he says. Then in a singsong voice, “I know, I know—that’s what I get for running around barefoot in a rain storm.”
I stupidly look at his feet. No socks or shoes.
I try to shake myself out of my steamy trance. I’m hot, he’s cold. I really AM an idiot.
I give the shirt a sharp yank, and Jack pulls back. The rubbery fabric stretches up across his back, loosening its grip on him. With a wrenching jerk of his shoulders, he breaks free from the suit and stumbles back.
And there we stand. Me, looking like a million bucks, and Jack making me feel seriously overdressed.
I hold his icky shirt by two fingers, keeping it well away from my Gucci threads. I cock one eyebrow. “ Voila .” I hope I sound oh so cool and blasé. That’s my intention. Because the truth is, I’m scared down to the tips of my split ends.
Jack is totally lean and defined and squeezed into nothing but a pair of maritime hotpants. I try to remember to breathe. I’m really scared of good-looking people. Isn’t everyone? I mean, everyone except the people who are actually gorgeous?
Jack takes his wetsuit top from me. “Thanks.”
He heads over to a closet built into oak paneling, pulls out some clothes, and then disappears into a bathroom set in the far corner of the gargantuan office. He shuts the door behind him and in a second I hear the shower start.
I need to sit down.
I push some books, newspapers, and two and a half pairs of socks aside to sit down on a roomy brown plaid couch pushed against the far wall. I slump back, take a few deep breaths, and try to relax.
Jack’s lair is part sporting goods store, part rec room, part county clerk’s office, part garage workbench. His desk is littered with a computer, a phone, papers, gear-looking things, a bike tire, strips of cloth, and what looks like a chicken alarm clock. And this is the guy who's going to make me stronger than a locomotive?
The bathroom door opens. Jack steps out, wearing an untucked white button down shirt with the cuffs undone and a faded pair of Levi’s. His hair is wet and his feet are still bare.
I swallow. He’s wearing more clothes than I’ve seen him in so far today, but seeing him fresh from the shower and in the process of getting dressed is so...intimate.
“What were you testing this morning?” I try my hardest to sound truly interested in the work. Not the man. Definitely not the man.
Jack breaks his stride and looks up. “I need seriously choppy waves to test the accessibility of pockets in the suit,” he says with a complete command I envy. “We’re supposed to get rain on and off from now through Halloween, but I have to take advantage of days
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