Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83039 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Wallace?” I called out, interrupting whatever poetry Monroe was about to spew about his future single life in the Bay. I opened the nearest door, a guest room we still hadn’t touched. I peered around the cluttered space. “Sorry. You were saying?”
“Oh, nothing, just that I have to go to San Francisco soon. Summer of navy friend weddings, apparently.”
“Ah. I see. Yeah, all my crew keeps getting hitched too.” I tried to sound indifferent, maybe even bored by plans that only underscored how finite our time together was. “Wallace?” I opened the next door, Monroe’s old room. My chest pinched as it always did at signs of his younger, far more vulnerable self. The sports posters. A few random school awards on the walls. Tickets from a concert. Photos he wasn’t in, and lord, could I identify with that mood. I forced myself to look away. “You don’t think Wallace could have escaped outside, do you?”
“No. I’ve been working here all day, and I was careful with the door when I opened it to get the mail, promise. It was warm today, but all the windows have screens other than the balcony in your room.”
“Balcony.” I rushed up to the third floor, Monroe close behind me. My heart pounded, but the balcony window was firmly shut, and no sign of Wallace on the daybed I hadn’t used in a week or more. Monroe checked under the desk and the low cabinets while I opened the bathroom door.
“Surprised we didn’t pass him on the stairs. I always seem to find him lounging there, taking up an entire step with his massive self.”
“Yeah, he’s big,” I agreed absently. Stairs. Stairs. Where else? “Wait. What if he didn’t take the stairs? Dumbwaiter.”
I rushed across the third floor to open the dumbwaiter. Meow. A distant cat noise sounded, and I pounded down the three flights of stairs and wrenched open the door to reveal Wallace sitting in the middle of the dumbwaiter cabinet in the kitchen.
“Oh my god, Wallace.” Much to his feline indignation, I scooped him up and cuddled him close. “How in the hell did you get in there?”
“Oh no.” Monroe made a distraught noise, making me turn to where he was holding on to the dumbwaiter door.
“Wallace is okay.” I shifted the cat so I could pat his arm.
“No, not the cat. Look.” He pointed at where the dumbwaiter door had pulled loose from its frame. And it wasn’t a matter of old wood or loose screws. Nope, this was unmistakable damage.
“Oh crap. That’s—”
“Don’t say it.” Monroe groaned like I’d punched him in the belly, complete with bending forward.
“Termites. That’s a problem you can’t ignore.” I shook my head because I’d seen this enough in other old houses to know how serious the damage was, even when one couldn’t see the bugs. “You’ll have to get the whole place exterminated and then deal with repairing the damage.”
“Hell.” Straightening, Monroe petted Wallace in my arms as if Wallace might have a better prognosis for him than I did.
“You’ll probably need a hotel while they fumigate.” I was nothing if not pragmatic about house disasters. “I can go crash at Dad’s.”
“San Francisco.”
“What?” I studied Monroe more closely, unsure if he was in shock.
“That’s what I kept trying to say earlier. Come with me to San Francisco.”
“Because you feel guilty leaving me?” I needed something to do. Right that damn minute. I set Wallace down and quickly washed my hands at the kitchen sink. Jerking open the fridge, I scanned for something to chop. Or pound. “Yeah, your trip would make sense for the fumigation if you can get someone with an opening then, but you don’t need to drag me along out of guilt. The laundry room at Dad’s isn’t that bad.”
“I’m not dragging you anywhere.” Monroe made a frustrated noise as he accepted the package of chicken I handed him. We always cooked so effortlessly together, Monroe grabbing a skillet without being asked and me dicing the ever-loving hell out of an onion. “I want to bring you with me because I can’t date you here.”
“You want to date me?” I stopped mid-chop before I accidentally lopped off a finger. That fickle hope I’d had earlier, the glowing ember of something real and lasting we’d had for weeks, sparked again. Dating had to be a step up from secret fling, right? But I couldn’t seem too eager. “I mean, you’re already getting—”
“And it’s spectacular.” He gave me a lopsided grin, the slightly shy smile he used whenever he hinted that he might be open to fucking that night. Even with my confusion and churning emotions, heat still licked at the base of my spine. God, I wanted this man with everything I had. I smiled back as he continued, “But sometimes a guy likes to go out to dinner with the person he’s doing that with. Walk together. Leave the house. Call me old-fashioned, but all this sneaking around is depressing. I’d like to hold hands, maybe dance somewhere other than in the rooms we’re painting. We could do that if you come with me to the Bay. I’ve been trying to ask you all week.”