Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
So much is at stake here. If we go back to Florida and treat this as an uncomplicated vacation fling, I don’t know if I can see her again and not think she’s mine. How do I see her at the bar with some other dude? I can’t just be her rebound. Fuck. That. But what other option do I really have?
If we extend this and get into a relationship, I’m never going to be able to break it off. What happens if it goes south? Do I just stick it out, and we’re both miserable? Or do we end it there and never speak again and I lose her completely? I can’t look in her eyes and know that I caused her misery. That I failed her. That I did anything but treat her like I have the past few days.
So what do I do?
I never should’ve come here.
But someone else would’ve. And these last few days would’ve included another man with her like this.
I growl into the air.
We’re going to pay for this somehow, at some point. The question is how and when.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out.
Banks: Please tell Moss that I’m right.
Moss: See, Banksy? He knows you’re on bullshit already.
I’ve missed these guys.
Me: What’s going on?
Banks: What is the make and model of the Scooby-Doo van?
I burst out laughing.
Me: What are you talking about? Why?
Moss: Just answer the question.
Me: It’s a van. I don’t recall seeing any badges on it as a child, but it’s been a while.
Banks: THE ANSWER IS OBVIOUS.
Moss: Yeah. It’s a 1960s Chevy G-body panel van.
Banks: You are so freaking dumb, Moss.
Moss: Says the guy who had me glue his finger shut.
Thank God I wasn’t there for that.
Me: Why are we having this discussion?
Banks: Long story. Tell him what it is because he’s wrong, and I know you’re not an idiot.
Banks: Please don’t be an idiot.
Moss: He gave you his answer. “A van.”
Me: What do you think it is, Banks?
Banks: I KNOW it’s a Dodge A100. Two words—round headlights.
Me: He has a point.
Moss: Mom and Dad stopped having kids because they got to the two of you and realized they’d hit rock bottom.
Me: Funny.
Banks: When do you come home?
Me: In a few hours.
Banks: Shit.
Moss: See you tonight then.
Me: Why shit?
Banks: No reason. See you tonight.
Me: Banks …
I wait, but no one texts me back.
“Dumb fuckers,” I say, shoving my phone back in my pocket.
I take a deep breath. It’s time. Time to wake her up and get ready to go.
With more dread than I’ve ever felt, I climb the stairs to our room. I feel the breeze from the open doors as soon as I step onto the landing.
She’s lying on her side, facing me, her lashes splayed against her cheeks. Her bare shoulders are relaxed, and she looks more peaceful than I’ve ever seen her.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “Hey.”
She stirs but doesn’t open her eyes. I don’t blame you.
“Hey, Birdie,” I say a little louder.
Her eyes flutter open. A slow grin splits her cheeks. “Hi.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you should probably wake up so we can get out of here.”
She pulls a pillow over her head.
I know.
I slide into the bed beside her and pull her into me. Her cheek goes against my chest. Her arm drapes over me.
“You know, we could probably just stay on this island as castaways,” I say, making her smile. “I’m not much of a hunter, but we could probably get a boat and fish. And charge tourists to go see the pigs.”
“I could be a pig excursionist.”
I chuckle. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“Not until I make it one.”
My fingers dance along her arm. “If anyone could do it, it’s you. People would give you money just to spend time with you.”
“I wouldn’t charge you much.”
“Hey,” I say as if I’m offended. “I’m your partner in this scenario. You can’t charge me. We’re in this together.”
She giggles.
“I got breakfast for you. No strawberries this time. James recommended French toast and blueberries, and James is my bud. I trust him.”
“I’m glad you got so close to the butler.”
“The butler,” I say with a terrible British accent. “I could never be a person with a butler. I couldn’t take myself seriously.”
She laughs. I pull her closer to me.
“Is it bad to admit that I don’t want this to end?” I ask.
She stills. “I don’t want it to end either, Mad.”
I stare at the ceiling, my chest burning. Why is this so hard?
She sighs. “I know you think you’re just fling material. But why does our fling have to end here? Why can’t we just … fling it out for a bit longer?”
That sounds fucking amazing. “Is that responsible?” I hate myself right now.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”