Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Perfect,” said Blair.
Frannie turned to me. “We’re closed for the day, so I don’t have a server here, but you’re free to have a seat and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee. Or you can join us for the tour.”
“I think I’ll just take a walk around town and meet you back here.” I looked at Blair. “Is that okay with you?”
“Of course.” She was nervous beneath the smile, but I was positive Frannie wouldn’t notice. Grace under pressure was her thing, after all. She’d ace this interview, and the job would be hers.
She’d move up here, accomplish all her goals, and in ten years, she’d have everything she wanted.
I’d be a memory.
Irrationally angry about it, I stomped up and down the streets of downtown Traverse City glaring at happy people, wearing a scowl on my face, confused about what or who I was mad at, and coming to the conclusion that it didn’t matter and I needed to just get the fuck over it.
Maybe I would only be a memory to her. But I’d be a good memory. The best-sex-she-ever-had memory.
I’d make damn sure of that.
She got the job—of course she did.
“It’s just so perfect,” she chirped on the ride home. “I’ll be the full-time manager and baker for as long as she needs, and when she’s ready to come back after the twins are old enough, I can decide then if I want to stay on or look for a shop of my own.”
“Sounds great.”
“And,” she went on, clapping her hands, “she said she spoke to her parents about renting out her old apartment, which is above the garage at Cloverleigh. Sort of like a carriage house.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. It’s small, but I don’t really need a lot of space, and the rent would only be three-fifty a month. With what she’s going to pay me, I can totally afford that, plus I’ll be able to pay off all my credit card debt within two years.”
“That’s amazing.” I forced myself to ask the next question. “When will you move in?”
“I told her I can’t move until after Labor Day weekend, and she was fine with that.”
“If you have to move sooner, it’s okay,” I said, almost wishing she would. No sense prolonging this. “Don’t feel like you have to stay in Bellamy Creek for me. For my shop, I mean.”
She reached over and rubbed my shoulder. “Hey. I want to stay. After Labor Day is soon enough. I just need my car back by then.”
“You’ll have it.” I cleared my throat. “I’ll, uh, put another call into my supplier. Make sure he has the right address.”
“I just can’t believe it,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “Everything is coming together.”
“Good.”
But I felt like everything was falling apart.
Seventeen
Griffin
“What’s this?” I asked as Blair set a small frosted cake in front of me. It was late Tuesday night, after nine o’clock, but I’d had practice tonight. Afterward, I’d skipped the usual hangout at the pub to come home, clean up, and eat a late supper with her.
“It’s a cake.” She lit the single candle standing in the white frosting.
“I can see that, but what’s it for?” I looked up at her. “It’s not my birthday. Is it yours?”
Smiling, she shook her head. “Nope. My birthday is in June. It’s for our anniversary!”
“Our what?”
“Our anniversary. It’s been exactly two weeks since we got married.” She fluttered her lashes and put both hands over her heart. “The happiest two weeks of my life.”
Laughing, I pulled her onto my lap. She was wearing one of my favorite outfits—the blue dress with the little bow in the front, and somehow she looked even more beautiful than usual in it. “You’re crazy.”
“I know.” She kissed me. “And I invaded your space, and I talk too much, I’m a terrible driver, I’m not good at painting, I spent too much on the new rug for the lobby, I spilled coffee in your nice clean truck—”
“What?”
She winced. “Yeah, I didn’t tell you about that. But when I took your truck to get groceries the other day, I spilled my coffee on the front seat. I cleaned it up, though!”
I groaned.
“Also, I might have hit a curb.”
I groaned even louder, but it was impossible to be mad at her.
“My point is,” she went on sweetly, patting my shoulder, “that I know I’m not perfect, but you make me feel good about myself. I’m grateful for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. And,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper, as if someone might hear her, “you give me the best orgasms I’ve ever had.”
I lifted my chin. “Good.”
“Blow out the candle. Make a wish.” I blew it out, and she wiggled on my lap. “What did you wish for?”
“A million fucking dollars in my bank account, what else?”
She pouted. “I thought it would be something sexier.”