Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100202 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 501(@200wpm)___ 401(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Guess she couldn’t sleep either.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were awake,” I said gently, so I wouldn’t scare the shit out of her.
Her startled gaze jumped to mine, and her spoon hit the ice cream with a thud. “No big deal. Come on in. I have plenty to share.” She gestured to the counter surrounding her, and I blinked at a dozen different pints of ice cream, their lids scattered in different directions.
“I don’t really think I’m dressed for the occasion,” I noted, my hand slipping over my bare chest as I took in her pajama pants and hoodie. Only the tips of her brightly painted toenails were visible. The last week had been an awkward dance of sharing the space while still respecting each other’s privacy, which basically meant our exchanges had been limited to “thank you for dinner” and grunts.
“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve found you standing shirtless in my kitchen,” she replied with a slight smirk. “Come on, grab a spoon. It’s pretty apparent neither of us is sleeping.”
Had to admit, there were very few things in my life I’d seen that were as appealing as the sight of Callie sitting on the counter, swinging her legs, her hair piled onto her head in a loose knot.
“I’ve never seen an ice cream buffet like this.” I grabbed a spoon from the drawer as she cleared a spot for me on the counter.
“Come on, it’s better from up here.” She patted the bare space on the granite next to her. “Seriously, though. It’s not half as much fun if you eat it in a chair.” Her gaze fell down my body and she looked away quickly, pink staining the rise of her cheeks. “Not that it looks like you eat a lot of ice cream.”
Maybe I wasn’t the only one who liked what they saw.
“I don’t usually,” I said, picking up one of the pints that hadn’t been scooped. “Pink Lemonade?”
“Figured it was worth a try.” She shrugged and dug her spoon into the pint she held. Cherry Berry. She swallowed and patted the counter again. “Seriously, up here, or no ice cream for you.”
I’d never woken up to a woman indulging in an ice cream buffet before, let alone one who demanded I sit on the counter, but what the hell. Bracing my palms on the edge of the granite, I hoisted myself up beside her, keeping a respectable twelve inches between us and looking up just to make sure my head wasn’t flirting with the pendant light.
“There you go.” She offered me a smile like she was proud of me and dug back into her pint.
“Why so many pints?” I swirled my spoon into the fresh top of the Pink Lemonade and lifted the small scoop to my mouth, taking a bite. It was tart and sweet, and it left a slight chill as it slid down my throat.
“Why not?” She put her pint down and reached to her right. “I had a shit day and stopped into Two Scoops before I picked up Sutton from school.” She pointed the spoon at me. “And it didn’t have anything to do with the resort, so that’s not violating rule number thirteen. Anyway, they were trying out some of their new flavors before the season starts up, so I grabbed a pint of each.” She stabbed her spoon into a pint of Chocolate Walnut. “Sutton nabbed the Strawberry Fritter after dinner, so that one’s not available.”
“And now you can’t sleep?” I guessed, taking another bite of Pink Lemonade.
“Nope.” She shrugged. “My mind starts racing with all of the things I should have said.” She stabbed into the pint again. “And I usually come up with the most brilliant things after the fact. What about you? Crap day that doesn’t break rule number thirteen?” She slid the spoon past the curve of her lips, and I turned my attention back to my ice cream.
Staring at my roommate’s mouth was the worst idea in the fucking world.
Nope. Kissing her would be the worst. Staring is just…bad.
“Nightmare,” I answered with a shrug.
Two lines appeared between her eyebrows as she studied me, and I felt the stare like a physical caress, worried but tentative.
“What about?” she asked, turning to ditch her current pint and pick up a new one labeled Orange Dreamsicle.
“Don’t remember,” I answered honestly. “I never remember my dreams, but my body somehow does.” Flexing my hand, I noted the nail marks were slowly fading from my palm.
“Army stuff?”
“I really don’t remember.” I tilted my head. “It wouldn’t surprise me, though.” I set the pint down between us. “I honestly can’t remember sleeping well in the last fifteen years.” Not since Mom had first shown signs of getting sick. I’d woken up to the slightest sounds ever since.
She swallowed, slowly dragging the spoon from between her lips, but she didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer. I more than liked the fact that she didn’t push.