Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I let go of his hand and put some space between us. “I should pick up all this stuff and then meet Prince Francis.” I crouch and start gathering the items my purse vomited all over the driveway, like a drunk college kid after a night out on the town.
Miles stands there for a few seconds, watching, before he shoves his glasses up his nose and mutters, “Let me help.”
I can’t tell if he’s equally as awkward as me, or rude, or just . . . socially inept. I’ve always been what people call quirky, which is basically a nice way of saying I’m weird. I’m aware that driving around in an SUV that looks like a cat with the Kitty Whisperer advertised on the side is atypical. And I embrace that side of my personality. Why be beige when you can be a calico?
I shift and nab the tampons before Miles has a chance to.
“Wow, you have a lot of pens.” He gathers an entire handful. “And lip balms.”
“Your lips can never be too soft!” I say, then immediately wish I could drop those words down the closest sewer grate.
He gives me that smirky grin again, while tipping his head to the side, as if the smile weighs his head down. “Hmm.” He flips the lip balm between his fingers and holds it up. It advertises a book by one of my favorite authors. “I’ve never seen lip balm like this before. Is it man flavored?”
I snatch it from him and jam it back in my purse, feeling my face heat again. I can’t tell if he’s poking fun or not. “It’s swag from a book convention I went to.”
“They give out lip balms with half-naked dudes on them at book conventions?”
“The romance ones, yes.” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and grab the packet of tissues that fell out, and a used one I need to toss in the garbage.
“There are book conventions specifically for romance?”
“There are. Thousands of people attend them.” And now I sound defensive.
“Huh. I had no idea.” He passes over the mitt full of pens, most of which are also from the author convention I attended a few months ago with my sister, Hattie.
Once the driveway is clear and my purse is full again, I fall into step beside Miles as we head for the front door.
The porch is small, with a single rocking chair and a tiny bistro table. A wilted plant sits on top of it, looking like it’s in need of a serious drink.
Miles unlocks the door, but pauses before he opens it. “Just so you’re aware, my mom is a bit of a hoarder, and I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”
“Don’t worry.” I smile in what I hope is reassurance. “I take care of cats for all types of humans.”
He nods and turns the knob, carefully opening the door. He steps inside first, flips on the hall light, then motions me inside.
“You can keep your shoes on,” he tells me when I start to toe off my Bobs.
“I don’t mind.”
“It’s safer. My mother’s cat is a destructive little shit.” His tone does not imply affection.
“I see.” I try not to judge him for the derogatory way he refers to the cat. They’re only badly behaved when they’re in need of attention. I’m surprised when he doesn’t announce our arrival. “Will I be meeting your mother today as well as our feline friend?”
He moves away from the door, making more room for me to step inside the hall. The front entryway is narrow, and a small closet to the right is stuffed full of jackets and shoes. To the left is a narrow sideboard piled high with mail, magazines, and newspapers that have spilled over onto the floor. The name on the envelope reads Tabitha Thorn, who I’m assuming is his mother.
Miles shakes his head. “She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.” I reach out and put a hand on his forearm, then retract it immediately, because I don’t know him well enough to randomly touch him. “I didn’t realize.”
“I didn’t say anything over the phone because there was no good way to phrase it, so I just left it out. And she’s okay, but there’s a solid chance she might need more care than she can get living here.” He waves in the direction of the living room.
And now I feel awful for bringing it up. Maybe he’s being nice by saying it’s okay. Maybe it’s the opposite of okay, and now I’m making things more uncomfortable. Maybe this explains why he’s been so rude. “That must be difficult.” I try to think of something else to say, but my brain seems to have lost the ability to form thoughts and put them into words of comfort.