Let It Go Read Online Free
tending his dating and mating ‘must-haves’ checklist, he crosses off number three—smart. A runaway bead of perspiration trails from his forehead to his temple causing one of his tell-tale calloused hands to catch it, rubbing it away.
“Here.” Savannah quickly offers up her Terrible Towel, noting his form-fitting t-shirt is nearly drenched.
“You don’t mind?” he double-checks.
“Not at all,” she says, fully aware of the fact that she has already swapped sweat with him, if only in her imagination.
He peels his baseball cap off, revealing a full head of dark, wavy hair, trimmed high and tight as he mops the cotton cloth across his forehead and around the backside of his neck.
“Ah, much better,” he says, looking at the rumpled-up towel in his hand. He squints the corners of his eyes, reluctant in handing it back to her. “I can take it home. Wash it. And bring it back to you.”
“No worries,” she says, grabbing the yellow and black rag from his hand. In a show of support and total lack of conceit, she swipes the towel across her own forehead and down around the backside of her neck, between two long, low-lying braids that sweep over the front of her shoulders.
The genuine action causing him to grow quite content, releasing another warm, infectious chuckle. Keenly aware of the attractive face smiling back at him, he catches himself, midway between reaching for her, his intent to brush a runaway piece of hair from her lip. Reining in his hand, he searches for a subject.
“So, you got it figured out? My job?”
“I’ve got it narrowed down,” she begins, “You’re either in construction, or athletics…maybe football…you’re definitely big enough.” She motions at his long, substantial frame. “Or maybe, you’re a male model.”
“Shit,” he snickers, completely uncomfortable and too humble to even consider such a notion.
“If Mark Wahlberg modeled Calvins,” she refers to the once popular underwear ad, “you certainly could. Besides, look at your eyelashes,” she points out the dark, uber-long accessories. “It’s really unfair, you know. Do you know how many of my friends pay to get those lashes?”
He smiles. “Modeling underwear? Never even made it on my radar. But, if you want a new kitchen table, a hutch, bed frame…I’m your man.” He holds up his calloused hands. “I make rustic furniture. From the tree to your home.”
“A modern day Paul Bunyan, huh?” Savannah jests, her mind recalling a piece of American folklore, quite possibly a new-fashioned female sexual fantasy.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Minus the full beard and flannel shirt.” His hand simultaneously runs across his budding five o’clock shadow, now conscious of its presence.
His action draws Savannah’s attention to the ruggedness of his square jawline, wondering what it would feel like against her hand, or any part of her body for that matter.
More gym-goers have flooded their once private corner, reminding Brody of the time and place. “Well, I’ve probably interrupted enough of your workout. I’ll let you get back to it.” He extends his hand for one more contact with hers. “A pleasure, Savannah Bondurant.”
“You too, Brody McAlister,” she returns his formal address, getting back to her push-ups as he walks away. One, two, three, four…
Chapter Three
An hour later, as the sun is starting to set, Savannah pulls up in front of her house in suburban Savannah. A red sports car sits in the drive, accompanied by its owner, Jack Brigant, who sits on the front steps of the residence.
“What does he want?” Savannah mutters, gathering up her belongings. Shoving her keys inside her purse, she smiles as her hand makes contact with a note left under the windshield wiper of her Jeep at the gym. Do you like to run, Savannah Bondurant? If so, give me a call sometime. 555-8484. Brody McAlister, male model. Lol! Prepping herself, she takes a deep breath, exhaling as
“Here.” Savannah quickly offers up her Terrible Towel, noting his form-fitting t-shirt is nearly drenched.
“You don’t mind?” he double-checks.
“Not at all,” she says, fully aware of the fact that she has already swapped sweat with him, if only in her imagination.
He peels his baseball cap off, revealing a full head of dark, wavy hair, trimmed high and tight as he mops the cotton cloth across his forehead and around the backside of his neck.
“Ah, much better,” he says, looking at the rumpled-up towel in his hand. He squints the corners of his eyes, reluctant in handing it back to her. “I can take it home. Wash it. And bring it back to you.”
“No worries,” she says, grabbing the yellow and black rag from his hand. In a show of support and total lack of conceit, she swipes the towel across her own forehead and down around the backside of her neck, between two long, low-lying braids that sweep over the front of her shoulders.
The genuine action causing him to grow quite content, releasing another warm, infectious chuckle. Keenly aware of the attractive face smiling back at him, he catches himself, midway between reaching for her, his intent to brush a runaway piece of hair from her lip. Reining in his hand, he searches for a subject.
“So, you got it figured out? My job?”
“I’ve got it narrowed down,” she begins, “You’re either in construction, or athletics…maybe football…you’re definitely big enough.” She motions at his long, substantial frame. “Or maybe, you’re a male model.”
“Shit,” he snickers, completely uncomfortable and too humble to even consider such a notion.
“If Mark Wahlberg modeled Calvins,” she refers to the once popular underwear ad, “you certainly could. Besides, look at your eyelashes,” she points out the dark, uber-long accessories. “It’s really unfair, you know. Do you know how many of my friends pay to get those lashes?”
He smiles. “Modeling underwear? Never even made it on my radar. But, if you want a new kitchen table, a hutch, bed frame…I’m your man.” He holds up his calloused hands. “I make rustic furniture. From the tree to your home.”
“A modern day Paul Bunyan, huh?” Savannah jests, her mind recalling a piece of American folklore, quite possibly a new-fashioned female sexual fantasy.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Minus the full beard and flannel shirt.” His hand simultaneously runs across his budding five o’clock shadow, now conscious of its presence.
His action draws Savannah’s attention to the ruggedness of his square jawline, wondering what it would feel like against her hand, or any part of her body for that matter.
More gym-goers have flooded their once private corner, reminding Brody of the time and place. “Well, I’ve probably interrupted enough of your workout. I’ll let you get back to it.” He extends his hand for one more contact with hers. “A pleasure, Savannah Bondurant.”
“You too, Brody McAlister,” she returns his formal address, getting back to her push-ups as he walks away. One, two, three, four…
Chapter Three
An hour later, as the sun is starting to set, Savannah pulls up in front of her house in suburban Savannah. A red sports car sits in the drive, accompanied by its owner, Jack Brigant, who sits on the front steps of the residence.
“What does he want?” Savannah mutters, gathering up her belongings. Shoving her keys inside her purse, she smiles as her hand makes contact with a note left under the windshield wiper of her Jeep at the gym. Do you like to run, Savannah Bondurant? If so, give me a call sometime. 555-8484. Brody McAlister, male model. Lol! Prepping herself, she takes a deep breath, exhaling as
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