Independent Braylee Mitchells faces the prospect of falling in love with her new roomie: self-proclaimed player and long-time friend, Dominick Mulder, when a damaged apartment and old vows force them together... and make them possibly confront and d...
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Chapter 3
DOM
I watched Bray for a moment as she entered through the glass doors at the front of the pub, 30 minutes late.
But I had anticipated that- she was always a bit spacey and punctuality tended to slide from time to time. I couldn't honestly recall how many times the chick had overslept and missed her morning lectures at university.
She stood blinking against the dim interior of the room, scanning over the occupants around her in search of me.
God, she was a rocket.
Tall and slender with an abundance of curves in just the right places, it was hard not to think about trying to put some moves on her, but that was a line I would never cross.
Not with any of my girl friends, and especially not Bray.
I did allow myself to admire her, though. At least for a moment.
After all, who would I be if I didn't take a moment to appreciate fine art? I was no connoisseur, but I reckon Braylee Mitchells would fall into the tier right there at the top where all the priceless artefacts were kept.
That nobody was allowed to touch.
Surrounded by fuck off security who'd not hesitate at putting a bullet through your dick should you attempt it.
Yeah, she was hot, but she also scared me a tiny bit.
Long, shapely legs encased in tight black jeans were tucked into a pair of brown, low-heeled ankle boots. A long-sleeved, dark green shirt hugged her waist and breasts tightly, the neckline sheer enough to provide a teasing glimpse of the cleavage that lay underneath. A silver chain with a simple pendant hung around her neck, and a matching set of stud earrings were in her ears, visible since her dark auburn hair had been pushed back into a simple ponytail at her crown.
When she spotted me, her lips curled into an easy smile. I knew that there was nothing intentional in it, but her lips had a natural cat-like tilt to the corners that made any gesture she made with her face unconsciously sensual.
Braylee began to weave through the polished wooden tables of the joint. It wasn't that busy yet for a Wednesday afternoon, so she didn't need to traverse through crowds of people to reach me. When she found my table located at the perimeter of the bar, beside a wide glass window that looked over the well-kept lawns, I got to my feet and pulled her into a hug, but not before those big golden eyes of hers widened with surprise.
Bray wasn't much of a hugger.
"Your hair!" she mumbled against my chest before I released her. She took a step back and blinked up at me. Even though Bray was a tall woman, I still towered over her. Her hand snaked up between us so she could stroke the side of my head where I had shorn off most of my hair. "Oh my God, I don't think I've ever seen you with short hair!"
