Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Intently, I study page thirty-four. Sheesh, when did Brad Pitt get so dang old? My mom loves him. And seriously, have you ever seen the column, “Stars: They’re Just like Us”? Um, yeah, what America needs are photos of Luke Bryan pushing an entire shopping cart of French baguettes and beer in the Whole Foods parking lot. And the photo of Theo James filling his car tank with gasoline? I mean, please, do they really expect us to believe Beyoncé buys her own toothpaste?
Apparently.
I shake my head in disgust but continue flipping through it anyway. Then, over the top right-hand corner of the magazine, a pair of light-brown Timberland work boots shuffle, appearing in my line of vision and catching my attention.
Not wanting to be rude, I inch closer toward the conveyer belt so I’m not hogging up all the valuable aisle space, turning to shove the magazine back into the metal magazine rack on the endcap.
Finally! The woman in front of me begins digging through her purse for her payment and hands a credit card to the cashier.
Halle-freaking-lujah.
With a jaunty flick of my wrist, I toss my unpaid box of tampons onto the conveyer belt, adding a last-minute pack of Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum that I’m suddenly in the mood to chew.
“That seems like an impulse buy. Are you sure you need that?” a deep baritone asks from behind me, and I flinch, startled.
I recognize the voice without even having to turn around, and wince, my body tensing up.
Cringing and wishing the ground would swallow me whole, I pivot slowly on the heels of my brown calfskin ankle boots, and paste a tight-lipped smile on my face that I’m sure looks as fake as it feels.
“Tampons are not an impulse buy,” I smart with authority, as heat singes my face. “They’re a necessity.”
“I meant the bubble gum,” Caleb deadpans in a deep voice.
Shoot. Me. Now.
As I face him, doing my best not to recoil like a wuss, a hundred impressions assault me: his height, his brooding expression, his rugged appearance.
His nearness.
Forging on, since we’re obviously hostage to this dead-end conversation, I ignore the apprehensive rolling inside my stomach. “So, how’s it going, Showtime?” I use air quotes when I say his nickname, then immediately regret it.
His face remains expressionless.
“Why, it’s going splendid, Walk of Shame. Thanks for asking.” I have a feeling he’d use air quotes too, but his hands are full.
Since mine aren’t, I narrow my eyes and boldly plant both hands on my hips. Then I remove them but let them hang clenched at my sides. “Please don’t call me that.”
Caleb just shrugs his broad shoulders and studies me from under the brim of his ball cap, his dark eyes scanning my figure before they dart to the conveyer belt, where my bright, hot-pink box of tampons rolls gradually—excruciatingly slowly—toward the scanner.
In a time lapse.
At a snail’s pace.
In slow motion.
The slowest conveyer belt in the history of Express Lane checkouts. Slap some glitter, lipstick, and a spotlight on that box, and we’d have our own Broadway play called, Hello, cruel world! Abby has her period!
I draw in a breath, center on my core, and blurt out, “Are you stalking me?”
His hardened expression doesn’t waver. “Yup. And later I’m making a lampshade out of your skin.” His lips curve into a barely perceptible sneer, and he holds up several packages of heavy-duty sanding paper and a half-gallon of paint primer that he’s been clutching in his bear-like paws.
I twist my face into a grimace and roll my eyes. “Ha ha, very funny.”
When it’s finally my turn, the gray-haired woman behind the counter greets me, her hawk-like gaze shifting back and forth between Caleb and me, a smile playing at her wrinkly lips. “You find everything okay, hun?” She smacks her gum.
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I tensely shoot another frown at Caleb, who continues to regard me intensely, and swipe my debit card nervously through the digital card reader. Uncomfortable, I shake my head. What is with this guy?
“Do you want your receipt with you or in the bag?” The woman asks, extending the white slip of paper.
“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be returning those,” Caleb smirks, the muscles beneath his unshaven jaw lifting his full lips into the slightest trace of a smile. As if abruptly remembering his faux pas, that phantom smile is wiped from his face, replaced by another scowl.
Now, that ghost smile may have disappeared, but not quickly enough, for in the middle of that unhappy mouth, below the flawlessly indented cupid’s bow of those full, rich lips, are a set of straight, snowy-white teeth. And among that set of straight, snowy-white teeth?
A gap.
A gap, set in the center of those very wolfish teeth, making its debut for a fleeting moment. I wonder if I only imagined it. Because, guh! A gap.