Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 135847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
As one could guess from the fact they often didn’t last long, none of her boyfriends were anywhere near as great as Hale seemed to be.
Which could be why they didn’t last.
On the other hand, Carole had been with the same boyfriend from when they were sophomores in college to when they broke up last year. She’d been devastated. She’d thought there was a ring in her future (and she’d thought that for the last five years). Eventually, she couldn’t wait anymore, so she’d ended it.
But Fliss and I had never been his biggest fans. He was too Dude! for either of us (and, frankly, Carole too, but it wasn’t until after it was over that she confessed to things that bothered her). He was the kind of guy who still told “that’s what she said” jokes and called breasts “knockers”. Fliss and I had both been secretly relieved when Carole had figured it out and scraped him off.
So obviously, not even in the same league as Hale.
I honestly didn’t know how to handle how well he and I got on now that we were no longer fighting. I kept waiting for him to do something annoying or engage in some behavior that raised a red flag.
I mean, at the last minute, he came out to lunch to look at a couch with me. I wasn’t sure even my dad would do that.
And truly, going to him the night before, having him be all…Hale, listening and supporting and giving me space when I needed it, stroking my hair when I needed that, and dropping it when I needed to move on.
I was getting sucked into how fabulous he was.
I was also getting sucked into other things about him.
Primarily, how shitty it seemed his life had been and how deeply I wanted to do something about it. Not something normal, like being a decent person to him and helping him to make good memories that would outweigh the bad. Or being a sounding board so he could get it out and heal. Though I wanted to do all that too.
No, something like finding magic that would erase his past and give him better.
This desire had gone so far, during that day, my mind wandered to fantasies of a good witch visiting (who was a doppelgänger to me, obviously, and didn’t wear tulle, equally obviously, but instead, vintage Halston), who would give me a magic wand that would allow me to travel back in time and right all the wrongs done to Hale.
I wasn’t usually that type of girl.
It wasn’t like I wasn’t a dreamer. I was. But my dreams were goals. They were realistic. Doable.
Not fantastical.
That said, even if the Good Witch Other Me came to visit in real life, I wouldn’t know what wrongs to right.
Since we’d met and this started happening between us, it was all about me.
It wasn’t that he shut it down. He shared. But he wasn’t all that forthcoming. And I found myself protecting him in that, because it was the only thing he allowed me to have to keep him safe.
And this didn’t even get into the fact that he clearly wasn’t happy in the present.
I sensed he didn’t like his job, or how busy it was, or who he had to deal with, or some or all of that.
But he didn’t share about that either.
So it was past and present being what seemed like absolute shit for Hale.
And yet, he was a magnificent individual. Just a good, good man.
I hurt for him, because it might be deep down, but I knew he hurt.
I just didn’t know what to do about it.
He wheeled my bag to the foot of the stairs, then headed toward the kitchen, asking, “Wine or cocktail?”
I looked at the island, where there was a red open, and he was already drinking it.
“Wine,” I answered, flipping off my nude pumps and shrugging off my winter white trench.
I had a basic white tee and skinny jeans on under it. This was outfit number three of the day: commuter black jumpsuit and cardie to start, an Escada pantsuit for a segment I filmed, my current outfit for going out with Hale at lunch and being at home with him now.
“God. It smells amazing,” I said, following him to the kitchen. “What is that?”
“Spaghetti Bolognese,” Hale answered, pouring my wine. “It’s simmering. I got started on it later than I expected. We have an hour before it’ll be done. And the bread is still proofing. That’s almost ready to go into the oven, though.”
I ignored the glass of wine he slid my way in order to stare at him.
“Wait,” I started. “You mean, you got some storge-bought bread dough and now it’s almost ready to go into the oven, or you came home and made bread? From scratch?”