My vote is for the spoiled chicken, and I touch the floor, even though it’s wood-printed vinyl, as I hope I can get the smell out.

Ever.

Chapter 16

Blake

“Road trip,” I call out as I knock low on Zoey’s door. I did at least call this time, but I didn’t tell her much. Just that I was coming over because I want the full impact of awe when I share what I’ve discovered.

Especially since it took me the better part of three days and I’m pretty proud of myself. If I could pat my own back, I would, but my deltoids are screaming after the workout Trey and I did this morning, and I can’t scratch my nose, much less my own shoulder.

Shit, now my nose itches. I try wiggling it like Sabrina the witch since my shoulder is unwilling to lift my arm. When wiggling doesn’t work, I’m forced to lift my arm incrementally through willpower alone because the muscles are jelly.

I have just enough time to scratch it and then the door opens.

“Come in, come in!” Zoey waves me in, her hand flapping rapidly.

“Excited to see me?”

She shoots me a wry look. “You’re the one hyping what you found and getting me all anxious. Is it good? Is it bad? I don’t know!”

She slicks her hands over her hair, which is in its usual bun, but there are loose strands that give her a haphazard look. It’s sexy as fuck, making me wish she’d take it down, shake her head, and let her black locks fan out over a pillow while I bury myself in her. My eyes slowly take her in, realizing that while she left the workday’s bun, she’s changed clothes for our not-date.

Dark jeans hug her thighs tight enough that I know her ass will be equally and sexily outlined, a V-neck T-shirt shows the smallest inch of cleavage, and booties with the smallest wedge make her lips that much closer to mine.

“You look beautiful.”

She blushes, ducking her chin and eyes from mine, and a tiny zing of anger shoots through me. I hate that she’s unaccustomed to hearing compliments, that no one has told her every morning and night that she’s gorgeous without it being tied up in barbs as a backhanded compliment.

I guess that means I have a lot of praise to catch up on. “Seven hundred and thirty,” I muse.

“Huh?”

Before I answer, I pull her to me for a sweet, small kiss. She might not realize it, but that was me sealing my promise. “The minimum number of times per year you should hear how beautiful you are. Twice a day—morning and night—times three hundred and sixty-five days. Seven hundred thirty-two in leap years.”