Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73506 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Ah ah. Nope. I do not want to get all sentimental. I don't want to hear anything that even begins to resemble pity or sympathy.
If I’m honest, though… if I really, truly delve into the dark recesses of my mind that I only seem to access at three a.m. when my shields are down and I’m staring into nothingness, unable to sleep… my biggest struggle is the lack of guilt I have over my husband’s death. I hate the word “widow.” I’m tired of pretending that I’m not sad from grief, but rather from the certain feeling of failure.
"It's great," I say, though even I can hear the wobble in my voice. “I’m fine. I actually slept last night and got Emmy off to preschool without a hitch. If you call not wearing shoes or socks without a hitch, and you know I do.”
“Of course. How’s business?”
I stare at the empty office. "Business is fine," I lie. I’m too stubborn to admit that abandoning my anemic family law practice in favor of taking a large amount of the life insurance money that I got for my husband's death and putting it into opening my own massage therapy business was probably a bad idea. I’d had no idea that one of the largest chains of massage places was going to open up a fancy new location in the heart of Boston and offer a new deal that I couldn't possibly compete with.
I’d had no idea that scheduling my hours around school wouldn’t be convenient for other people, and I definitely hadn’t had any idea that the overhead costs would add up as quickly as they did.
"Honestly, business is… a little slow," I lie again.
It isn’t slow, it’s abysmal.
I swallow hard. “And I…"
I suddenly lose the ability to talk.
There’s a man coming my way, only a few yards from where I am now.
No.
It can’t be.
Because this isn’t just any man. This is… the man. The man that I have conjured up in every fantasy I've had for the past year, ever since I stopped sleeping with my husband because he always smelled like another woman’s perfume and even the best stain removers couldn’t remove some other woman’s lipstick from his work shirts.
This…this is the man that I…designed? Created?
Manifested?
Am I dreaming?
“Honey, are you okay?”
“No," I say, telling the truth for the first time in this conversation. Because my Dream Man just walked in that door.
I stare.
He’s tall, almost imposing in stature, making me feel every deficit in my height of barely five feet. Italian heritage, because that olive complexion and Roman nose would be dead giveaways. Those eyes, a dark brown with flecks of gold like well-worn leather, eyes that are knowing but curious, intelligent but playful, hard but gentled by pain and so intense I fight the urge to run.
There’s something about him that’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite figure it out. Another parent from school maybe?
I imagine his voice, masculine and a little husky, maybe even with the slightest hint of an Italian accent. He walks with confidence and grace, with the certainty of a man who doesn’t just expect to be obeyed but requires it.
I swallow. The lines of his face say he’s lived a life that hasn’t been easy, but the lines around his eyes says he has a sense of humor. A five o’clock shadow graces his chin, his neck marked with ink. I’d bet anything he's got them in other places, too.
His faded Levis hug powerful hips and white tee contrasts against his dark skin.
Sarah’s losing patience. “Hello? Dani? Girl, are you alright? If you don’t start talking, I’m coming over.”
"I'm fine, don’t worry…” I pause because I need to enjoy this moment a little longer. It isn’t every day you meet your fantasy come to life and any second, he’s going to walk by my—
Oh. My. God.
Oh my God. Oh. My. God. He's looking at the window.
He's checking his phone, like he’s…checking an address or something.
He's coming in.
Oh my fucking God, I'm going to lose my mind.
By some miracle, I keep my voice mostly steady. "Guess what? You manifested a client for me. I gotta go, babe." I hang up the phone and slide it professionally on my standing desk, then turn, ready to greet Mr. Dreamy.
He stands outside my door in all his sweltering, manly glory. I breathe in deeply and try to appear calm.
Instead of a highly professional little jingle, the door screams like a siren when he opens it, easily ten octaves too high. I gasp and he jumps.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
My heart skips a beat. That voice, all deep and husky and sexy. My mouth goes dry.
Stay professional.
Stay professional.
“I’m so sorry about that godawful door. It’s supposed to ring prettily like a bell or something.”
What the hell am I saying?
His lips twitch and he scratches his chin. “Points for originality?”