Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Benji barks to get my attention—and I can’t blame him since I’ve devolved into a full-on one-person conversation—but when I look up and follow the direction of his gaze, what I find isn’t at all what I expect.
A very large, attractive man wearing what I’d guess is an incredibly expensive custom suit is walking a pig on a long lead line. A tiny purple service vest is wrapped around his pink body as he struts through the park with his nose held high in the air.
Benji turns to look back at me as if to say, “Hey, don’t get any ideas on the purple vest,” and I nearly chortle.
“It’s cute, for sure,” I chide softly. “But it’s not exactly your color, my man.”
But Chase thinks it’s your color…
I roll my eyes at myself and focus on the larger-than-life man and pig duo walking through the park. What a set of characters this pair would make. I imagine a man that size walking a pig that small has some outrageous stories to tell and a lot of vibrant life to live. He’s probably got a crazy girlfriend or wife who can talk him into just about anything and a group of friends who both love and hate him. In fact, with the way his mouth appears to be in a perpetual smirk, he looks mischievous and fun, like the kind of man who could pull off one hell of a prank.
I pull Benji over to the bench on the side of the walk path and pull my phone out of my pocket to jot down some notes. Benji groans at my inability to get my brain off books, and I nod. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
An old lady with a flowered knit cap stares at me from the bench ten feet away, and for some insane reason, I feel the need to explain myself. “I’m just talking to my dog.”
She bites her bottom lip to stop a laugh—I can tell—and hums before turning the other direction.
I take a deep breath and focus back on my notes app.
Big guy with pig, I write, making myself laugh. God, I’m crazy. Potential character in a city series about a friend group with him at the center. Bold personality with soft, gooey center. Wealthy, funny, and always the life of the party.
I read my notes back and blow out a breath of incredulity. I can only imagine how on earth I’m going to interpret this jumble when I finally get around to doing something with it. It’s not like I have free writing time right now—ha-ha-ha. All of my current time and concentration belongs to the book that shouldn’t be. The life-ruiner, as it were.
But just for the hell of it, I try to jot down some names—whatever comes to mind—just to set myself up when I come back to this in the future. One might call this a pathetic attempt to avoid the book I should be working on, but I’m certainly not the person who is going to call that out.
What kind of guy does he look like?
Paul? Ha, hard no.
Nathan? Definitely not.
Calvin? No. Still wrong.
Parker? Not bold enough.
Brooks? Seems better as a last name.
Kline? Hmm. That one’s got some merit.
I’m about to continue when Benji pulls at his leash so hard I’m catapulted up from the bench in one smooth motion. It’s jarring and surprising, but when I see the border collie coming our way with a bow in her hair, it starts to make a little more sense.
I shake my head to clear the giant pain radiating up my neck and rub at the soreness in my leash-holding forearm. “Dang, Benj. Keep it in your pants, would you?”
The old lady with the flower cap looks my way again, her lip curled up in slight wariness this time. I choose to ignore her once and for all. She’ll be dead in a couple of years anyway.
Okay, okay, Brooke, that was a little too far. I glance over at her again and search my conscience for inner forgiveness. All I can muster is an extension on her timeline by three or four years.
That’s it. I’m really going to hell now. This poor old woman hasn’t even done anything to me. Something about her just puts me on edge. Like I should know her or something.
Standing, I wrap Benji’s leash around my hand to get better control and drag him—nicely, I swear—in the opposite direction of his lover. His eyes are a little sad, but I’ve already painted this park red with crazy today, and I think going over to talk to the collie’s owner about how my German shepherd is experiencing love at first sight would really put me over the quota.
Benji falls in line, dutiful as always, but when he looks over his shoulder one last time before we turn the corner, I start to feel more than a little bad.