Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79007 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79007 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 395(@200wpm)___ 316(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
But from what I could tell with Reese, she hadn't dated anyone in years, and the guys she had dated were, ah, was there a nice way to say wimpy little man-children? Because they were fucking wimpy little man-children who she had actually had to break up with. I wasn't sure she had ever actually been in a situation where she felt jilted.
You know, unless you counted in her books.
And, to her, they counted.
I once saw her throw one at the wall in the library when she thought no one was around because, apparently, the leading man was wrong, and did the - and I quote - 'a-hole alpha thing where they talk in circles until the supposedly strong heroine actually ends up being the one apologizing' which was a book no-no for Reese.
I didn't even know how to go about apologizing for my behavior. To get her to trust me again. If she even could. Who would trust a man who ran off for a month at the slightest bump?
Ugh.
I had a feeling I was going to have to pull one of Reese's favorite plots.
The grand romantic gesture.
And see how it went from there.
SEVEN
Reese
Cyrus could go eff himself.
Oh yeah, I said it.
Okay, so I didn't technically say it.
But I thought it.
With emphasis.
And bold lettering and all caps.
It was a complete one-eighty from where I had been last night. I had gone to bed after a long, unhappy, non-calming bath. I tossed and turned. I woke up in the middle of the night with an oppressive weight on my chest that I couldn't call anything other than genuine unhappiness.
That, well, it sent me walking right down to The Creamery as soon as Daya opened up the next morning.
"This is early for you," she said immediately as the door closed behind me.
"I hate him," I declared, hoping for firm, and failing miserably.
"Of course you do, Ree," she said with a soft, sisterly smile. "Of course you do. What happened?" she asked as she scooped my usual order.
So then I told her, the words bursting out almost uncontrollably, feeling so good to be able to speak them to someone, to purge it all.
"Maybe he has like a micro-cock," Daya suggested as I put a scoop into my mouth, making me choke hard as she smirked at me. "Just kidding. He's got a third leg; I'd bet my life on it. I'm sorry you lost your new buddy, Ree. Seriously. You guys were the cutest 'just friends' that I have ever seen. But, yes, 'fuck him' is the mindset you should be in. Look, I know you're in here all the time. But we are usually just both lost in our own separate worlds and don't talk. But I know you enough to know you're a catch. This is his loss. Truly."
I maybe wasn't going to go that far, but I could definitely get behind the being mad at him idea. If for no other reason, but that I was tired of feeling mopey.
See?
This was why I didn't come out of my books.
I liked the fictional realm of emotions.
Especially in a genre like romance where you knew that no matter what your hero and heroine go through, what wicked twists of fate, or extreme uphill battle, they will always end up happy.
Life wasn't like that.
It didn't matter how interesting a heroine you were, how hot, or sweet-talking your hero was, how well you got along.
Sometimes life simply didn't work out.
Sometimes you felt things.
Sometimes you hoped for things.
And then... nothing.
Sometimes life was like the long, boring ride up on a rollercoaster without the free fall, belly-dropping excitement of tipping over and flying back down.
Which was part of the reason I didn't come out of my castles and highlands and cowboy ranches.
Life was better on the page.
The sooner I got back to that, the better.
"Okay, so, I know you're in scorned-woman mode, but, um," Daya said, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear.
Daya, well, she didn't mumble and fumble and trail off her sentences. As a whole, she had a seemingly unshakable confidence I admired.
"But what?" I prompted when she didn't finish.
"I have them," she offered, not quite making eye-contact.
"Have what?" I asked, watching as she reached under the counter to pull out a manilla folder full of a good four-hundred sheets of paper. "The pages?" I nearly shrieked, beyond excited instantly.
See, a while back, after I noticed for the umpteenth time that Daya was writing what seemed to be a story, I asked her what she liked to write. When she came back with 'erotica,' well, I had to ask and offer.
Ask if she wanted some feedback, and offer to help her with some publishing resources if she decided to go that route.
Apparently, Daya, the woman who had worked behind that counter pretty much since it opened, had been writing erotic fan fiction online for years.