Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
At the crunch of cardboard, I realise I’m pressing the pizza box to my chest like a lovesick teenager hugging her pillow. I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t seem to make my feet move. I know I shouldn’t be watching him, staring at those broad shoulders or the way the light highlights him like . . . well, like he’s on stage. He’s pretty enough to be on stage. Hell, he’s the kind of gorgeous that would be at home on the big screen. While the years have christened me with dark circles under my eyes, wider hips, and stretch-marks, Roman appears to be going through some kind of masculine renaissance.
I cut off the thoughts. It’s fine, I decide as I somewhat aggressively fold the box in half. Totally cool. I can cope with the father of my child staying at the bottom of my garden like an overgrown fairy. An overgrown super-hot, super-masculine fairy. No worries. No worries at all. In fact, it’s almost liberating that I don’t even dream about him anymore, that I no longer pine to feel his hands on my skin. It’s great! Better than great because if I don’t like him that way any longer, it can only mean I don’t have to try to make him like me in return. Detached, that’s the word. That’s what I am from him. Our only connection is Wilder . . . and that stupid moniker he left on my phone. But that’s an easy fix, and I’m only staring because it’s been so long . . .
So long since I’ve seen him.
So long since I’ve touched him.
Touched anyone. Had anyone touch me.
“What you up to, missy?”
“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, throwing the box, Frisbee-style at, who I belatedly realise is Jenner.
“What the fuck!” he cries as the corner connects with his forehead.
“Jenner, you scared the bejesus out of me!”
“Girl, there is no Jesus in you,” he mutters, rubbing his head. Picking up the box, he climbs the porch stairs. “Here.” He passes it back to me, though withholds the bottle of wine in his other hand. “Take your ninja pizza throwing box back. Keep it to attack your next visitor.”
“You startled me,” I mutter, my tone defensive.
“Startled you from doing what?” As Jenner glances toward the hedge, a response bursts from my mouth.
“I guess I was just away with the fairies.”
“You were what?” His expression is a comic WTF as he twists back.
“It was something Holland said on the phone last week. It means . . . distracted, I think. In Scotland, at least.” I kind of think that’s true but what is more truthful is my need for a distraction. Listen to the crazy lady—don’t look toward the light shining through the hedge!
“Why have you gone pink?”
“It’s warm out,” I bluster, then remember the porch light isn’t on. I hold out my hand for the wine. “Is that for me?”
“That depends. The only fairy you’re allowed to be away with is this one.” He makes as though to hand the bottle, pulling it away before I can grab it. “Especially if away is a trip to Disney.”
I dump the pizza box, and turn to the house, muttering how Holland is the only one who plans trips like that. Mainly because she never wants to return home to Mookatill.
“Everyone is a better person when they’re tan and holding a margarita.”
“You’ve clearly never taken a child to Disney,” I mutter as the screen door creaks closed. “Hey, can you remember what the king of the fairies is called?”
“Jenner,” he replies with an exaggerated pout, his hand pressed to one slim hip.
“I mean, for real and not in your head. Come on, former theatre kid. What did Shakespeare call the guy?”
“Oberon.” He gives a small shrug which is more like a ripple. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking.” I hope I look pensive as I force myself not to glance in the direction of the hedge again.
Move over Oberon. There’s a new king of the fairies in Mookatill.
“So I bought lube,” Jenner singsongs, brandishing a bottle of lube in the guise of Chardonnay. His smile is wicked, and I’m sure his beautifully shaped eyebrows would waggle if it wasn’t for regular Botox.
“Is that like how a spoonful of sugar is supposed to help the medicine go down?” Sliding away the can of Lysol, I pull out another glass.
“I would not need sugar to go down on the fine specimen you were spying on out there.”
I give an airy little chuckle that’s all misdirection. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure. And RuPaul gave birth to me, like this—fully formed.” He holds out his hands and does a little twirl, though he’s dressed in what he calls his straight clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt branded with the name of the bar he works in. “Sit. Sit, sit, sit!” he demands, pulling out one of the four wooden chairs gathered around the circular scrubbed pine table. “I want free flowing words.” Twisting the cap, he begins to pour. “And this here lube is for the delivery of said non-friction fiction.”