Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80302 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
He’s fresh air.
He’s electricity miraculously contained in a ridiculously amazing package.
I shake my head, not needing to get worked up all over again. Just thoughts of the man seem to have that ability.
My obsession can’t be healthy, but that also doesn’t mean I’ll be able to stop any time soon.
The jukebox, playing for the lunch hour downstairs, is audible by the time I make it out of the shower.
My phone screen remains blank.
I realize when I open the mid-sized fridge that I’m in desperate need of going grocery shopping, but I just can’t seem to muster the want to head to the store. I reach for the peanut butter after pulling the strawberry jam from the fridge. Peanut butter and jelly are my go-to when I can’t figure out anything else to eat. Most people would probably be over them by now with how often I eat them, but it’s my number one comfort food.
I vow to not look at my phone while eating and become even more disappointed when I check the damn thing after washing my plate.
I’m exhausted from the night before. It wasn’t the first time that one of the beer pumps went down, but I can’t recall it ever happening on a Friday night, which, of course, is always our busiest night unless we have live music or some type of festival in town. Rochelle stayed late, which was a blessing, considering she’s the one opening for lunch today.
My bones ache from the stress. I’m entirely accustomed to being on my feet all day, but there was just something about last night that drained me more than usual.
We were able to engineer a way to limp the pump through the shift, but I’m meeting with a repair man this afternoon to get it fully functional.
I know sitting on the couch is a very bad idea the second my ass hits the cushion. I all but melt into the thing.
I hear a chime. I scramble for my phone, which took all my willpower to leave on the kitchen counter.
I realize I should still be sitting down when I read his text message.
Alex: How bad is it that I want to lick that drop of cum on your left nipple?
I sputter a laugh, my cock wanting exactly what his message says, but it feels off, as if someone else has typed that message because it’s very not him.
Me: Who sent that message?
Those three dots show up twice before disappearing altogether.
My mind races, thinking I fucked up somehow. If someone got his phone and saw what I sent, I’ll probably never see the man again.
My hands have a slight tremble in them when my phone buzzes again.
The text is a picture of Alex smiling, holding a piece of paper with today’s date and the current time on it, proof that he was the one to send the previous message.
Jesus, that changes so many things.
Me: It took you a long time to respond.
I’m tired of letting the man off the hook for ghosting me.
Alex: I was busy.
That may explain today while he’s working with a construction team, but the man has left messages unresponded to in the past.
Me: Doing what?
It’s a challenge. Maybe I’m pushing a little too hard. Maybe I’m expecting more than I have a right to from this man, but I need to know where I stand.
There are no dots indicating a response this time.
Me: From your proof-of-life text it doesn’t look like you’re outside working any longer.
Nothing.
Me: It tells me you’re no longer outside playing with wood.
Alex: Because I was inside playing with wood. Going back to work.
The first part of his text is accompanied with a winking face emoji. What I know about Alex, that doesn’t seem to fit his personality either, but I think I’m discovering that I don’t know him nearly well enough.
I text back suggestive things several more times, but each of those go unanswered as well.
Despite the lack of response, I head downstairs to the bar with a huge smile on my face, my muscles no longer tense and tired.
Chapter 17
Boomer
“Really?” Harley asks, his eyes locked on my jeans. “You’re just going to let it chime?”
“I’m working,” I tell him, my lip twitching, threatening a smile. “We might get more done if you worried more about the cross beam than my phone chiming.”
“It could be an emergency,” he says, finally turning his attention back to the beam we’re trying to get level before securing it into place.
“It’s not,” I assure him. “Down an eighth of an inch.”
Once he secures it, I lift my shirt to wipe sweat from my forehead. It’s hot as blue blazes and it’s only one in the afternoon. I squint before blinking rapidly, realizing my mistake at the first hint of burn to my eyes.
“My sunscreen is getting in my eyes,” I say to no one in particular.