Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Letting the last of the boxes fall to my feet while I open the gate to the area occurs at the same time that I hear a door slam shut from the neighboring house. Training myself not to even look there wasn’t exactly a hard habit to create; however, keeping my mouth shut during Mrs. Prescott’s tangents regarding how useless I am and how my attending HOA meetings with my girlfriend is a disgrace to the entire community has been a whole other beast to battle.
And I don’t wanna politely continue to eat that elephant. I wanna fucking scream at it. Put a mirror in its face. Show it where I can see the wrinkles and crows’ feet and say some asshole shit like no wonder why your husband is fucking someone else.
Unusual feminine giggles have me cutting my gaze the direction I know to avoid just in time to see Mr. Prescott pull the blonde-haired woman by her barely covered ass against him. “Come on, Justine. Don’t be pissed at me. I brought you here, didn’t I?”
Justine dramatically pouts on a bounce that jiggles the tiny tits spilling out of her corset top. “You told me we could stay.”
“I know, Ju Ju,” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “but Gwenith is coming back from her mother’s earlier than expected, so we can’t.”
See. I told you he was cheating.
Resuming my discarding of the trash unfortunately doesn’t make it any more difficult to overhear their conversation.
“Then I wanna stay at The Frost Luxury Hotel.”
I fold the boxes to fit better in the bin as he caves, “Whatever my little Ju Ju wants.”
“Roses.”
“Done.”
“Champagne.”
“Two bottles.”
“Room service.”
“We’ll put it on the company card.”
She squeaks in excitement prompting me to shake my head and work a little faster.
Why fucking cheat on your wife? Yeah, Mrs. Prescott is a raging bitch; however, there’s no need to pretend to love her while banging someone else. I’ll be the first one to say, I believe she deserves a lifetime of obnoxious podcasts about karma and a long overdue session in the self-help section of a bookstore but not this. No one deserves to be cheated on. Some people never come back from that shit. And some of us…well, for some of us, it takes a fucking miracle to heal. And I guess in a lot of ways that’s exactly what Jaye is. My own little miracle.
Back inside the house, I wander towards the kitchen island where Jaye has been working on her children’s book for most of the day since the office isn’t quite ready yet.
She says no rush, but I want her to have a space that’s hers to create in. I think she needs it more than she realizes. Before renovations and reorganizing, this place was Chris’s house that his fiancée lived in when he wanted. Now? Now, it’s beginning to look like a couple resides here. I’ve done everything I could not to have much of a say, yet Jaye refuses to accept ‘whatever you want’ as an answer. The results? Copper style cookware. New shelves as well as hooks in the laundry room. And a new rug for reading on in front of the fireplace, which is something we’ll probably do later tonight.
I brace one hand on the edge of the island and lean over to plant a supportive kiss on the exposed portion of her shoulder.
The action receives a hum of gratitude followed by another panic spiral I am assuming are just part of an artist’s creative process. “Maybe I should do a book about owls? Or foxes? Those can’t be that hard to draw, right? Maybe teeth? Should I do a tooth book? What about something involving doctors or the doctor’s office? You know remind kids that the place isn’t that scary? Oh! Oh! Maybe something about therapy offices?” She swiftly peers up at me. “You know there are a shit ton of children who have appointments there, too? Maybe it would be comforting to have a book on the subject to help the transition?”
Inching myself around so that we can be face to face, I ask, “You’re still thinking about my appointment from earlier this week, aren’t you?”
She poorly hides the truth in her expression. “No.”
“Jaye.”
“Okay, kind of!”
Her outburst threatens to tug a smile to my lips.
“But I’m not worried about you.”
The counter receives a sarcastic head tilt.
“Fine. I’m not worried just about you. I know your physical results weren’t stellar but taking into consideration how you’ve been living for the past few years, I agree with Dr. Giambrone – and not just because she’s my doctor too. Improvements to all your basics will happen due to your change in lifestyle – aka living with me – and the stress and strain on your leg will have a better chance to heal and be more manageable now that we have a physical therapy plan to begin.”